Hostage Situation
by BeTrueToThyself
Summary: Sakurafubuki holds Ryoma Echizen as collateral to prevent the Seigaku team from winning. The freshman receives the backlash of the magnate's anger... and something else. Based on the movie. WARNING: explicit rape. Sequel up.
1. Prologue

Author's note: This is pretty much just a recap of the series and the movie. Nothing very interesting... yet. I italicized and bolded the important parts - a small attempt at foreshadowing. You're welcome to skip the rest. I just figured - hey, I wrote it, so I may as well post it, even if it's unnecessary for fans of the series.

**Prologue**

Ryoma Echizen blinked blearily, wondering what had woken him. He squinted and curled a limp hand in front of his eyes to block the bright sunlight. He shifted on the plush lounge chair. The tang of saltwater stung his nose. His short, black hair – lit with green highlights – and his dark swimming trunks swished in a gentle breeze. He blinked slowly several times, unable to form a coherent thought. Sighing, he decided it didn't matter and lowered his arm, eyes slipping closed.

Surrounding him, many passengers tanned in the glare of the sun or splashed and played loudly in the immense swimming pool less than four meters from his bare feet. A hum of happy noise around him swelled and domed. **_Above them, pale seagulls swooped, circled, and guffawed at the sight of a mobile, silver landmass inside a vast blue ocean, like an expensively capped tooth flashing in the open, gingivitis-ridden mouth of a scoundrel._**

A hand suddenly pinched his nose shut and he spluttered, jerking upright and swiping away the hand. "What are you doing, Momo-senpai?" Hazel eyes, cleared of a sleepy fog, glared at his black-spiky-haired friend, who scowled back.

His friend retorted, "What are _you_ doing?" Takeshi Momoshiro, affectionately known as Momo, squatted at Ryoma's right side. His muscles rippled, obvious even under the looseness of his yellow shirt, as he brought his arm back and rested his elbow on his green-clad knee. His deep purple eyes slipped past the younger boy; he raised an eyebrow conspiratorially.

Nearly imperceptibly, Ryoma's eyebrows twitched worriedly as he followed Momo's path of sight to Eiji Kikumaru. Kikumaru's fists were planted on his hips, and his usually friendly, lighthearted expression twisted now with annoyance. "Echizen, I can't believe you. We're on a cruise ship, and _you're sleeping_!" He shook a forefinger at the junior high freshman. Kikumaru's jaw-length, red hair, styled to curl outward and upward at the ends, was so dark that it sported a purple sheen in the brilliant sunlight.

Ryoma's face grew unreadable as he reached down to his side for his cap. "And your point is?" He slung it over his head, pulling its bill low to hide his eyes. He laid back down and folded his hands over his stomach.

"When will you ever get another chance? Look at all this incredible stuff you can do!" Kikumaru gestured grandly, following the sweep of his own hand with his black eyes, but when he didn't get a response, his arm flopped back to his side in frustration. He locked gazes with Momo. They grinned and lunged for the boy at the same instant.

"What are you doing, senpai-tachi?" Ryoma demanded. "Put me down!" The two older boys laughed, eyes sparkling in the sun. They carried his writhing body to the side of the rippling pool, and swung their bundle in preparation to toss him in.

A rich bass voice startled them. "He is correct. There are many recreational activities on this ship." They paused on the edge of the pool, still holding the twelve-year-old boy effortlessly. Ryoma stopped squirming, also, to look at the speaker.

Momo turned to the male standing next to this cigar-smoking stranger. "Who is this, Captain Tezuka?"

Kunimitsu Tezuka, the Captain of the tennis club at Seigaku, was a senior at the junior high. (There are only three years in the junior high, so no sophomores exist.) Kikumaru, too, was a senior, though Momo was but a junior. Ryoma was the only freshman allowed to become a regular on the tennis team. The other members had matured early, at least physically, and all stood at least a head taller than he. Tezuka, though, probably stood at a height better referred to as a head-and-a-half taller. He rarely smiled, yet nevertheless, or perhaps because of this, he commanded an aura of strength and leadership. His hair, brown and scraggily, swept low over severe glasses. The Captain lifted a hand, saying, "This is the owner of the ship. He's the one who invited us to play tennis here."

Kikumaru's eyes cleared. "Oh, so you're him!"

The middle-aged man nodded. He stood a little taller than Tezuka; his hair, too, was brown, but long and restrained at the back of his neck in a ponytail. A thin goatee surrounded equally thin lips. **_His eyebrows slung low over deep-set eyes, and his expression seemed calculating. When the man's eyes seemed to linger on the freshman's half-naked body, Ryoma, angry for succumbing – even within himself – to intimidation, felt the hairs on his nape lift. The man puffed on his cigar a few times, then lowered it to his tuxedo-clad side, apparently pretending he'd done nothing unusual. He said, deceptively mildly, "Yes, I am Hikomaru Sakurafubuki. _**And you are welcome to enjoy any and all of the recreations available on my ship. You should be prepared for tomorrow, however, when you play against my team as entertainment for my party-goers."

Ryoma found he had no time to consider his concerns about the wealthy man. Momo cried indignantly, "Of course we'll be ready!" He turned back with a mischievous look to the bundle in his arms, which widened its eyes. "Heave-ho!"

Ryoma gasped and clapped a hand to his cap as he was dumped unceremoniously into the pool. He came up sputtering, hair plastered to his head. He glared unconvincingly from under the brim of his dripping hat at the two chuckling boys. They dashed away, calling back to him, "Hurry up and get ready for the practice matches!"

Ryoma muttered just barely loud enough for them to hear, "And you're going in your swimsuits?"

"Oh, yeah!"

* * *

Ryoma closed the door to his cabin and sighed. With the tips of left-handed fingers, he lowered his white cap to cover his eyes. Tapping his tennis racket on his shoulder, he strode down the sumptuous passageway, slightly ill at ease in such luxury. Lit with elegant, silver sconces that emitted a soft glow, beautiful paintings hung against the walls' mahogany paneling. The quiet clink of heel on high-glossed marble was his only accompaniment. That, though, suited him just fine – the silence. It was peaceful.

When he emerged onto the expansive upper deck, brilliant sunlight blinded him, and he blinked several times, ducking his head. The sudden warmth on his skin blasted into instant drops of sweat. He groaned quietly, "So hot!" And he was supposed to play a match in this heat?

"Echizen! Hurry it up!" The second and only other junior regular gestured at him from the far-away tennis courts, his anger clear even across this distance.

A slight widening of his hazel eyes was the only sign on his face that the numerous and obviously high-quality courts excited him. "Sure, Kaidoh-senpai," he called back. Despite his words, he merely increased his pace from paused motionlessness to walking, rather than the jog his senpai most likely meant.

His senpai, Kaoru "Viper" Kaidoh, was known for his unfaltering glare and looming presence. So, too, was he known for his ability to curve the path of the tennis balls he hit - a shot he called the Snake, or, when it was an around-the-pole shot, Boomerang Snake. He also stored in his muscular physique an impressive amount of endurance. Only fringes of his black hair showed beneath the bandana he always wore.

Syusuke Fuji stepped up beside Kaidoh's right side. "Late again, is he?" A light smile played around the senior's mouth, just as it usually did. His eyes gently closed as the muscles in his cheeks contracted. Fuji, considered a tennis genius, played nearly as well as their Captain. He could never truly be predicted, however. Fuji played tennis not to win, but for the thrill and the challenge. That didn't stop or slow him, though; in fact, that unpredictability could often be a potent weapon against his opponent. In his tennis arsenal were three powerful techniques known as the Triple Counter: Tsubame Gaeshi, Hakugei, and Higuma Otoshi.

Kaidoh harrumphed and didn't reply to his senpai's rhetorical question. Folding his arms, he glared at the freshman who was arrogant enough to keep his senpai-tachi waiting. He leaned back against the high chain link fence that encircled the courts. To his left, the small double-doored gate hung open.

Breathless, Momo and Kikumaru suddenly dashed past Ryoma on either side of his small form. They skidded to a stop in front of their two teammates. Momo pivoted, waved a hand in the air and taunted, "Hurry up, Echizen! We don't have all day!" He laughed.

Ryoma grimaced, at last reluctantly breaking into a sprint. When he reached them, Momo pounced. As he knuckled a noogie into Ryoma's skull, Momo chortled, teasing over and over, "You're late! You're late! You're late! You're late!"

"Ow, ow, ow! Stop it, Momo-senpai!" He struggled to get away.

"Oi, Echizen!" Ryoma and Momo fell motionless. Momo turned the both of them around to face the voice, his fist still poised over his friend's head. Ryoma screwed his face up even more at that presumptuous movement.

"Yeah?" Ryoma asked of the voice.

"It's your turn. You're in a match with Fuji," Shuichiro Oishi informed him, wiping his streaming face with a towel. Takashi Kawamura came up behind him, clapping a hand on the senior's shoulder. Both of them were sweating, breathing hard, and grinning tiredly at one another.

"Fuji!" cried Kawamura. "Echizen! Fight-o! BURNING!" He pumped a racket-clutching fist into the air. He, also a senior, was the main power player of the team, ruling a shot called Hadoukyuu which often blew away his opponent's racket when a return was attempted. His family owned a sushi restaurant, and when he graduated from junior high, he intended on quitting tennis to focus on becoming a chef. An oddity of his was that when he held a racket, he was aggressive, loud, and self-confident, but without it, he was much quieter and self-effacing.

Momo, too, was good at power play. His favorite move, called the Dunk Smash, was a strong shot, utilizing a high jump to smash powerfully into the opponent's court. He and Kaidoh had had a rivalry since they'd met, and they often got into fights with one anther. Momo had excellent stamina, but not quite as good as Kaidoh's.

Vice-Captain Oishi, though, was, in essence, the mother hen for the team. Always concerned for the good of all, he usually took the role of peacemaker. He and Kikumaru were the Golden Pair of Seigaku, the best doubles pair the team had. Accordingly, they were the best of friends, and worked very well together. Oishi's finishing move was called Moon Volley, a lob that hit behind the opponent, close to the baseline. He was very good at behind-the-scenes work; while Kikumaru distracted the other doubles team with his signature, unpredictable, acrobatic play, he'd be strategizing to take the next point.

Sadaharu Inui, standing next to the inscrutable Captain who currently sat as bench coach, called as well, "Echizen, Fuji!" Their heads turned to him; Inui's voice dropped low and sinister. "If you two don't hurry up, you'll have to drink this!" The senior's glasses glinted and he grinned maliciously, pointing to a beverage in his other hand that resembled the steaming contents of a lava lamp. "The new, improved Inui juice!"

Everyone's faces but the Captain's blanched. They held their hands over their mouths, muttering things like, "There's no way I'll drink _that_! NEVER!" Ryoma and Fuji shot toward their respective sides of the court with rackets that just miraculously coalesced in their hands.

Inui's grin widened. His specialty, besides the creation of new and more terrible variations of Inui juice, was Data Tennis. Through observation, he learned of other players' habits and calculated the likelihood of which shot they'd take and where they'd hit it. He could be frighteningly accurate, capable of getting to the next shot's location almost before his opponent connected ball with racket.

Tezuka's techniques included Zero-Shiki Drop Shot, a drop shot that didn't bounce, and the nearly all-powerful Tezuka Zone, which put a spin on the ball, forcing it to move toward himself, no matter where the opponent aimed. This meant that he could remain in one spot the entire match, returning all the balls by merely pivoting on one foot.

Ryoma commanded the Twist Serve, which, after touching down, shot toward his opponent's face. (It required him to use his non-dominant right hand against right-handed players.) Drive A, similar to a smash, Drive B, a shot that bounced quickly to create a "B" shape on the court, and Cool Drive, a powerful spin shot, were all of his own creation. He had several other impressive techniques as well, such as being able to play with his eyes closed by listening to the sound of the ball as it was struck.

Much to the delight of the passengers that wandered by, the practice matches were held with seriousness, vigor, and a good deal of friendly banter. Afterward, most of the players dispersed to enjoy their unprecedented opportunity – there was so much fun to be had on a cruise ship! _**But two, Tezuka and Oishi, were called before the owner, Sakurafubuki, to finalize details about the next day's matches.**_


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

"What is it?" asked Kikumaru. "Oishi, what's wrong?" He rushed to his friend's side, offering emotional support by slinging an arm around his shoulders and leaning an anxious, concerned head against the side of Oishi's. The other half of the Golden Pair smiled reluctantly, but merely shook his head in dismay.

All of the male Seigaku tennis team's regulars waited restlessly in the dimness for their Captain and Vice-Captain to speak. Night had fallen; electric light from behind outlined Tezuka's tall form. A small, circular table stood beside the deck's golden, gleaming handrail, around which all but one member huddled. Ryoma slouched a little distance apart. He'd crossed his arms over the rail, leaning against it. Looking out over the rippling mirror ocean, he noticed light from the ship's portholes hit the black troughs and reflect back like a hundred watching eyes, yet he still listened intently. One could almost see his ears twitch beneath his green-highlighted ebony hair.

Tezuka turned from his speechless Vice-Captain to address the team baldly. "They want us to fix the matches." His expressionless face subtly tightened.

"WHAT?" cried Kaidoh. "Why?" He lurched toward his Captain with the force of his anger, balancing for a long instant on his toes. His fists clenched at his sides. The other members evinced similar reactions.

Tezuka calmly replied, "People are gambling for us to win, and, as the house, Sakurafubuki stands to make a lot of money if we lose." Disgusted huffs and mutters drifted out on half-spoken breaths. Tezuka glanced at Ryoma. The freshman only hunched over a little more in response, nothing else. The Captain directed his immobile face away and linked an assured gaze with each member.

Oishi suddenly found his words. "They threatened us!" The confidence and rapport that had been building between the Captain and his team shattered. Their shocked attention shifted to the Vice-Captain. "That cook, who was so flashy with all those knives during dinner – he was there! He stood behind us, and kept stabbing a chicken, over and over, with this terrible look on his face!"

Eyes widened, and looks exchanged themselves. Alarmed silence, but for the ship's distant motors and the even more distant rush of the ocean, rang over the troupe.

The Captain stated firmly, "I want everyone's opinion as to the consequences if we don't fix the matches."

Fuji chuckled suddenly, bringing all eyes to himself. "Our opinion?" He shook his head. A small smile lingered around his lips.

The tension faded as Kawamura asserted, "That's already set."

Kaidoh nodded. "It was chiseled in stone a long time ago."

Momo laughed in disbelief, "Throw the matches?"

"As if." Kikumaru threw an arm around Momo. Grins they threw at each other.

Inui added, "We'll fight, and we'll win." The square lenses of his glasses caught and reflected the white, electric light.

Ryoma turned around at last and allowed a tiny smile to show on his face. His hazel eyes glinted with determination.

Tezuka nodded. "All right." Though his eyes didn't change, his friends understood that he was pleased. "We'll allow the gambling to continue, but we will not throw the matches," he affirmed.

"_Hai!"_ they chorused.


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Momo and Kaidoh glared out over the enthusiastic crowd with identical scowls on their faces. Neither spoke. Both watched with dark, heated eyes their teammates complete final, pre-match preparations. The others sensed the stares grinding into their backs, but wisely chose not to comment on it. They went about their business as though there weren't two pillars of wrath sulking behind them. Ranged in a rough line approximately parallel with the coach's bench, the tennis players faced the court. Pleased smiles of excitement lit most of their faces; Tezuka's and Ryoma's orbs of fire were their only indication of the same.

Finally, Kikumaru sighed. He glanced once over his shoulder at the two brooding behind the bench. He abruptly whirled and approached them. Sticking his fists on his hips, he leaned in and prompted, "Are you two going to pout forever?"

They snarled, "NO!" in unison. Momo snapped at Kaidoh, "Don't copy me!"

Kaidoh pushed his face into Momo's, growling, "I didn't! _You_ copied _me_!" A spiteful grin gripped his lower jaw. "Do you wanna fight?"

"Bring it on!" The rivals bared their teeth. Momo's spiky hair flattened against Kaidoh's bandana, they stood so close.

"Uh-huh," Kikumaru muttered underneath their growls, lifting a teasing eyebrow. He shifted his weight to his right foot and folded his arms. A smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. "Oi!" he shouted, startling them.

Twin pairs of eyes snapped toward the acrobat. "WHAT?"

"The matches are about to start. Do you want to ruin the experience for yourselves just because you're substitutes?" Kaidoh and Momo seemed taken aback.

A voice snatched their attention. All six eyes jerked. "That was quite wise, Kikumaru." Inui adjusted his apparently sightless glasses with a finger as he stepped toward them. "You have a point."

The acrobat beamed over his shoulder at him. "See? Even Inui agrees with me." Kikumaru's momentary sternness had disappeared under a wave of bouncy happiness. His arms unfolded. Throwing his head back, a laugh erupted out of his throat. A grin crinkled his eyes.

Expressions of disgust arose on the juniors' faces. They stepped back from each other, however, and crossed their arms.

Oishi joined the group. "We're here to have fun, remember?" His kind eyes sparkled; his whole face shone with goodwill.

They melted. "All right," said one. "Fine," agreed the other.

"Inui!" Tezuka, seated alone on the coach's bench, faced the court with folded arms. "You and Kawamura need to get on the court. You're playing Doubles Two." As Inui came around the faded green bench, he met the forceful eyes of his Captain. Slight nods from each motionless face affirmed their mutual determination to win.

A nervous chuckle from Kawamura lifted Inui's eyes. Kawamura rubbed the back of his neck with one hand as he asked, "Are you sure you guys want me to play?" His tense, dewy eyes flicked to Kaidoh's and Momo's now-relaxed forms. Then his gaze traveled over the rambunctious, waiting crowd in the stands and halted on his opponents.

"Kawamura-senpai," came Ryoma's voice from chest-level. "Here's your racket." The senior looked down the length of the racket into his kouhai's slight smile.

"O-okay. Right," he muttered, taking it. "Ha! I'm on FIRE! BURNING!" Kawamura yelled, brandishing his racket. "COME ON!" His eyebrows snapped low over dark, fiery eyes.

The Seigaku tennis team grinned at this familiar spectacle. Inui's face, of course, showed no change; he merely adjusted his glasses once more. The doubles team turned as one and approached the net and their shocked opponents.

* * *

"Game and match! Seigaku, Kawamura and Inui! Six games to two!" A sudden roar followed these words from the referee.

The victors strutted off the court to the excited congratulations of their team members – to slaps on the back and high-fives and encomiums. The other team staggered off, too, with dazed looks in their senior-high-school faces. Most of the crowd cheered with all of the thrilled enthusiasm that results from winning a gamble. A few pockets of angered dissent trickled through, mostly ignored.

The noise tapered off, anticipation building toward the next match: Doubles One. Seigaku's Golden Pair limbered up by stretching and performing basic calisthenics.

Tezuka turned his head a fraction to his left. His teammates were falling silent, one by one. A tap on his left shoulder brought his thin, athletic body half-way around on the wooden seat. He calmly tilted his head backward, gazing blank-faced into an angry chef's face. "What is it?" he inquired politely.

A sneer lifted the cook's lip. "Follow me to the locker room, and bring your team with you," he grunted. Whirling around, he stalked off in the direction of the locker room's entranceway without glancing back once. His broad, white-clad back was tight with barely restrained anger.

Frowns melted the winning excitement away. "What did he say?" asked Fuji. The small smile almost always present on his face slipped away into hardness, and his blue eyes came out into the light, glinting like cold sapphires. The prodigy knew – sensed on a gut-deep level – that that man was without morals.

Tezuka stood smoothly, pivoting to confront his teammates. All eyes met his, except for one person's: Ryoma was turned partway back, apparently glaring after the cook's disappeared form. A bite in the senior's tone carried a twinge of frustration as he called, "Echizen!" The kouhai turned back – no sign of remorse on his determined face. Tezuka's eyes tightened minutely, but he shifted his attention to the others. With a softer voice, the Captain repeated the man's words. Tezuka's scraggly brown locks blew across his forehead in a sudden gust, like cumulus clouds scudding over a blue sky.

Momo erupted. "What a jerk! Does he actually think we'll do what he says?"

Oishi rose out of a muscle-stretching position and asked anxiously, "Is this because we won Doubles Two?"

Suddenly, worried expressions broke out across their faces. Tezuka merely nodded, saying matter-of-factly, "Most likely. We would do best not to press our luck." He stepped out of the group, his long legs effortlessly eating up the ground. The others hurried to follow.

Murmurs of dismay lifted across the stands as suddenly, an entire team abandoned the tennis court. The wealthy crowd struggled to understand, gazing around and asking neighbors with confusion evident in their body language.

The Seigaku tennis team hesitated before the open, black doorway of the locker room. It smelled overwhelmingly like cleaning fluid. With foreboding, they entered slowly. Tezuka felt the wall to his right for a light switch.

Suddenly, ebony silhouettes rushed out of the deepest shadows and accosted them. The door clanged shut behind them in finality, sealing the sounds within.

"Oi, what are you doing?" Kikumaru protested as he felt his arms being wrenched behind his back and tied together. Shock and terror rippled through him. "Let me go!" His sun-blinded eyes scanned the darkness as he struggled. His heart thudded faster, harder in his chest and his pupils dilated. Adrenaline gushed through his veins.

Familiar voices cried out in a like manner all around him. "Bastards!" Kaidoh's voice shouted next to his right ear. "What do you think you're doing?" Kikumaru grunted and staggered when someone's shoulder connected with his spine. He impacted with someone else, who gasped. Shoved and jostled, he felt like a loose coin in a miser's greedy fist.

As his eyes, the best among the Seigaku regulars, finally adjusted to the lack of light, he just barely made out Kawamura's bound form among the brawl yelling, "BURNING!" The power player charged a silhouette like a furious bull would a matador. A choked cry burst from the man as he doubled over and collapsed. When a form materialized at Kawamura's right and kneed him in the stomach, he grunted and fell to his knees. "Taka-san!" Kikumaru yelled, running toward him. His knee smacked into something hard; he tried to hop to get his balance again, but fell in the claustrophobic closeness of nameless bodies.

As he lay there dazedly on his side, scuffling and the sounds of flesh meeting flesh in violence gradually moved farther from him and faded away. White light suddenly branded his eyes. His and others' synchronized cries abruptly crescendoed and then died.

Kikumaru blinked rapidly, rolled onto his back and bound hands, and sat up, trying to see around the afterimages pasted onto his eyes.

The large, rectangular room was largely open. The walls were lined with brand-new blue lockers from the floor to the ceiling. He sat in the corner, in an aisle between a locker wall and a bolted-down bench that ran the length of the room. (Its wooden, varnished surface appeared foreshortened from this angle.) There were two more benches parallel with the first to his left. As he looked along the wall to his right, he saw the door that they'd entered through. If he'd stood in that doorway, then hopped over the benches, he would have stood in an apparently useless, open area – perhaps for team meetings.

Sprawled out in that open area lied his bound friends, like just so many broken dolls. Kikumaru's eyes threatened tears. He pressed his back against the lockers, and slid up them to his feet, ignoring the protruding metal latches that scratched him. He only took a single step before the barrel of a cold handgun thrust against his ribs. Gazing into the heartless eyes of a sailor, fright gripped his insides. He tore his eyes away from the man to realize that at least a dozen more armed workers encircled the room.

When his friends began showing signs of consciousness, relief rushed through him. Groans rose into the air and the tennis players sat up, shaking their heads. He saw it dawn on their faces, the same as it had on his, the kind of situation they were now in. Kikumaru yearned to go to them, but he didn't dare. The rough, circular barrel still dug into his side.

In the corner opposite his was another door, out of which strode no one other than Hikomaru Sakurafubuki. Kikumaru's stomach hitched. Smoke curled out from between the rich man's fingers dangling at his side. He lifted the cigar to his mouth and inhaled, closing his eyes in pleasure as the tobacco cured his craving in a sweet, sweet hit. He dropped his right hand back down and grinned smugly toward the subdued boys at his feet.

Sakurafubuki drawled, "You disobeyed." He lifted a dark, sardonic eyebrow when they glared at him. "There is no such thing as a free cruise. You boys are the reason that I just lost a great deal of money." He waited for an anonymous curse to die away. Suddenly, his brow dropped low over his hooded eyes and he growled, "I am going to take it out of your hides."

"Wait," Fuji called. Cold, strong sapphires glinted in the fluorescent light. He pointed out quietly, "You can't let anyone out _there_," he pointed toward the courts with his chin, "know the matches are fixed, can you? You can't hurt us."

Sakurafubuki chuckled with a rich bass tone. "Wrong. I just can't hurt all of you." His own obsidian eyes glinted in return. They scanned the young and fearful, though resolutely set, faces glowering up at him. He murmured to himself, "Though I do need to conclude this. They are waiting."

His eyes alighted and came to rest on one angry boy. His arrogant smirk grew wider. He turned to his men. "Grab that one." He pointed, knowing all too well what his name was.

The boy's eyes flew wide. "No!" the team chorused as the boy was snatched up and borne off, struggling wildly. Sakurafubuki stepped aside to allow them to pass through the door he'd used to enter. The group continued to protest and make futile demands. He ignored them.

The rich man gestured to the Golden Pair. "Take them back out to the courts for the next match. Stay close – be sure they do not escape." Several of the men nodded, stepping away from the lockers. The group's voices gradually died away. "Also," he spoke now to Kikumaru and Oishi, "be careful when you decide whether or not to follow my directions." He gestured toward the door behind him with a jerk of his head. "His fate depends on it."

Sakurafubuki disappeared within the next room.


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Momo stared at the white cap crumpled on the pale tile before him. A red "R" sewn onto its front, surrounded by the outline of a blue square, grew all-consuming in his vision. His shoulders and abdomen drew painfully taut. He flinched as a dry thud and a wall-muffled cry suddenly tore at his ears. He jerked his head up, locking wet, wild eyes on a sailor guarding the door.

Momo shot to his feet, shrieking, "DON'T YOU **DARE** HURT HIM!" He charged. Surprise sealed the rest of his team to the floor. The manic boy took no notice of the gun aimed between his eyes. He lashed out with a foot, kicking the man in the face. The sailor went down, shock in his expression. Blood flowed from his nose. Momo leapt over the man and threw himself at the door. It cracked. The sound of several more dry thuds and grunts slithered through the split wood, panicking Momo further. When he hurtled at the door a second time, it crashed open; he stumbled through.

Momo froze for a millisecond at the sight before him. The room, filled with three rows of free-standing, curtain-less showerheads, was completely tiled in white. Ryoma lied motionless on his right side in the center of the stark space, the top of his head closest to the door. His face was hidden from Momo. Ryoma's small hands, slightly discolored, were still tightly bound behind his back. His ankles, too, were lashed together. The cook – _so this is where that bastard went! _– stood over Ryoma, cracking his knuckles with a look of enjoyment. Beyond, Sakurafubuki, accompanied by two blank-faced sailors, appeared extremely pleased to have a ringside seat. An unconscious sneer lifted Momo's lip for a split second.

He bellowed, "ECHIZEN!" His friend stirred slightly.

At Momo's entrance, Sakurafubuki motioned to the two men at his left side. They dashed toward Momo, drawing their guns. More guards rushed in behind the junior through the broken doorway. (The door itself hung crookedly from its frame.)

The cook's lifted eyebrows received a nod and a smirk from his boss. He grinned back, leaned over and grabbed a fistful of Ryoma's T-shirt in his right hand, lifting the small, limp form with one arm. Ryoma's tied legs slid along the floor as he was lifted and then swung unresisting in the air. His head drooped over the chef's fist.

"ECHIZEN!" Momo screamed again as the men washed over him. As he was crushed underneath a layer or three of the ship's personnel, he desperately fought to get to Ryoma. He felt bruising, gripping hands all over him. The great weight atop him made it difficult to breathe.

An echoing battle cry of, "ECHIZEN!" abruptly burst over the room like a bubble of held breath. Tezuka, Fuji, Kaidoh, Inui, and Kawamura – their own arms still bound – flooded through the entrance and seized upon the crew. The Captain himself flew – an arrow of intensity – directly toward Ryoma and the chef. The latter's eyes widened.

Tezuka reached Ryoma's side in a blink and slammed his left foot into the cook's unprotected, vulnerable belly. The cook dropped the boy and doubled over, reflexively clutching his stomach. His mouth opened and closed like a fish's.

Tezuka hesitated, scanning the room at the free-for-all, but then kneeled in concern beside the freshman's terrifyingly motionless body. "Echizen?" he asked frantically. His typically blank, yet forceful, expression slipped into lines of anxiety and intense self-reproach. "Are you okay?" He waited. "Say something!" Ryoma jerked, then shook his head to clear it of pain-induced fuzz. Tezuka exhaled shakily.

Ryoma spat faintly, "Mada mada dane." The senior collapsed back onto his heels and chuckled in profound relief. At that unusual sound, the younger boy wondered hazily if his brain was malfunctioning. As he slowly wormed his way from the floor to his knees; Tezuka offered a shoulder for support, which he stubbornly refused. But then, Tezuka finally saw all of Ryoma's countenance as the kouhai tilted his head back to meet the eyes of his Captain. The senpai's right eyelid twitched. Blood trailed from Ryoma's nose and a cut, swollen lip. The red liquid dripped from his chin, staining his shirt. His left eye was already beginning to swell and darken, as was his jaw. Ryoma raised a sardonic eyebrow at the twitch and lifted a nonchalant shoulder to wipe the blood off his jaw onto its white cotton sleeve.

The other players jolted at Tezuka's out-of-place laugh. Kaidoh, Kawamura, Fuji, and Inui involuntarily glanced toward the unprecedented (for Tezuka) sound. Momo still lied on his stomach on the white tile, subdued by a knee digging into his back and the sight of a gun at the edge of his peripheral vision. The junior flipped his head toward Ryoma. Greeting the view of his freed friend, a relieved smile split his face.

The others' relief was tangible – and fleeting. As their adrenaline began to be swept away and they hesitated, the sailors gained the upper hand. Before they could notice and correct this mistake, the four of them were taken down. Inui's white glasses bent in the struggle and sat askew on his pale face. Kawamura sustained a split lower lip. Kaidoh's green-and-white bandana slipped halfway off, revealing his short, black hair. Severely wrinkled by several fists, Fuji's Seigaku jacket hung crookedly.

"Tezuka, Echizen!" cried Momo as the first – Inui – was subdued, followed rapidly by Fuji, Kawamura, and Kaidoh. "Look out!" Advancing upon the last two were about half a dozen sailors and the recovered cook. Tezuka pushed to his feet. He marched a pace to Ryoma's right and took a protective half-step in front of his kouhai. Ryoma's rhyolite eyes narrowed, but he said nothing, nor did he attempt to stand – trussed as he yet was. Fury and disgust at his own powerlessness tensed his entire body.

Sakurafubuki leaned against a shower pole in the background with crossed arms, apparently willing to wait and watch. The cigar was clenched between his too-white teeth.

The cook locked a vengeful glare onto Tezuka's blank face shadowed by brown locks. The bald cook's pate glinted in the harsh fluorescent light, as did Tezuka's thin-framed eyeglasses.

The sailors broadened their semicircle and trapped the two players. Ryoma spun on his knees to face the new half. He wished desperately, _If only my legs were free… _All of a sudden, three revolvers were drawn and aimed at his face. His hard eyes slid up the arm of one hired gun. A fourth man, his hands free of weaponry, darted in from the left. Ryoma quickly dropped sideways onto a hip, swinging his legs before him. He then frenziedly thrust himself backward with both heels, doing his best to avoid Tezuka behind him. The sailor, though, easily snatched him by his blood-stained shirt – _again _– and bore his writhing form off toward the others, whose faces tightened upon encountering his battered visage. The chef and another sailor leapt toward Tezuka as he swayed, batted out of the way by Ryoma's captor, and tackled him. Dropped roughly beside Momo, Ryoma, Kawamura, Fuji, Inui, and Kaidoh, Tezuka met their discouraged looks with an indomitable one of his own. Small smiles tentatively grew.

Sakurafubuki strode forward at last and surveyed the players – guarded by at least one man each – with a menacing scowl and tightly crossed arms. In anger his nostrils flared. He jerked the cigar from his mouth and growled, "You _children _have proven to be far more trouble than you are worth."

Kaidoh sneered at that. "So let us go!"

The wealthy man lifted an eyebrow. "No. That would be pointless now." Just as Sakurafubuki paused and opened his mouth to speak again, the locker room door clanged open from the adjoining room. The magnate shut his mouth and waited.

"Boss! The match ended!" a deep male voice called. As Oishi and Kikumaru were thrust into the shower room, the voice continued with satisfaction, "They lost, just like you wanted." The speaker entered behind them, alongside two other sailors. He grinned, showing off yellowed teeth.

"Good," replied Sakurafubuki. He swept his arm out. "Bind their arms and put – "

"Wait! I thought you said if we lost, you wouldn't hurt him!" Oishi demanded, whirling toward the magnate. He brandished his hand toward Ryoma's beaten features. Tears trembled in his sensitive eyes. Kikumaru shared a watery look with his best friend.

Sakurafubuki held up a hand to the men advancing on the Golden Pair with rope. They halted. He turned back to Oishi. "You understood correctly. However, these two," he pointed to Kawamura and Inui, "did not lose. It was necessary to demonstrate the consequences, of course." His eyes linked with those of the paused men. They nodded once and roughly tied the two's hands. Once done, they shoved the seniors to their knees beside their teammates.

Sakurafubuki inhaled on his cigar once more. Pungent smoke curled around his head. He stroked his bearded jaw thoughtfully. "All right," he murmured to himself. Lifting his dark, hooded eyes from their inspection of the tile, he announced, "To prevent any more escape attempts, I shall take Echizen with me, to another part of the ship." He spoke over their shocked protests. "If you do not win again, he will be released after the matches with no more harm incurred." His voice softened. "I need not say what will happen if you do win." Raising his eyebrows at Kaidoh, he asked, "Fair enough? You will have the opportunity to play in his stead, now." He set out toward the cracked doorway.

The Viper's lip lifted.

Two men seized the arms of the youngest boy. Ryoma cried furiously, "Don't touch me!" He kicked awkwardly with his tied feet at the knee of the man to his left. He succeeded merely in getting it to lock and in tightening the man's hands around his upper arm with bruising power. "Let go! Put me down!" He thrashed. His habitual silence dissolved in his fear to loquaciousness, rousing a larger worry in his teammates who recognized this and understood. Ryoma shifted from ignored demands to desperate threats. "If you don't, I'll yell that I've been kidnapped! How do you expect to carry me someplace if I yell that? 'Cause I will! Don't ever think that I wouldn't!" He got in another kick, this time on the second sailor. The man ignored him. "And besides, you've tied me up! Do you honestly think nobody is going to notice that?"

Sakurafubuki suddenly stopped walking. Ryoma, in turn, suddenly stopped talking. The magnate pivoted on a heel. "You have a point," he muttered reluctantly, half to himself. Stroking his goatee with a finger and thumb, he pondered the dilemma. "Unfortunate."

The chef took a few steps toward his chief. "Sir?" he ventured. The rich man looked up, waited, then motioned impatiently for him to continue. He jumped to obey. "There are servants' passageways!" Swallowing, he forced the tremor from his tone. "If you told me where you want to take him, I could lead the way. I know the routes."

Sakurafubuki smiled. "Good. Come, then." He presented the tails of his tuxedo to the room, but did not otherwise move to leave. He called, "Fuji!" A dark pleasure was evident in his voice. "It's your turn."

Sapphire eyes froze over.

The four men and boy exited. Eight tennis players watched helplessly. Ryoma exclaimed from the other room, "Oi! You really can't just keep dragging me off like this! Let! Me! Go!"

Someone shouted, "SHUT UP!" A loud s_lap. _And then a reverberating silence.


	5. Chapter 4

Note: Voila! It's the next chapter. My goal is to update about every two weeks, since basically the only time I have to write is on the weekends. :( I extend my apologies if you'd like it sooner, but that's not really possible at this point. Oh, and I made this one longer, at the implicit request of a reviewer. This one has a little more than 3,000 words, versus the last longest one, at about 2,300. Enjoy!

**Chapter 4**

Ryoma's face throbbed. His arms screamed about the sailors' vice grips holding all his weight. His hands were almost entirely numb, and the bones on the insides of his ankles ground together. He could barely see past the swelling around his left eye. He breathed in slowly, deeply, and tried to focus his bruised brain around the pain and the panic. _Just think of it as a tennis match,_ he thought, _an exciting tennis match against a truly worthy opponent._ The carbon dioxide eased out of his lungs. He relaxed and sank – almost rag doll-like – into the workers' holds.

He blinked down at the painted metal floor of the narrow, utilitarian passageway. The light was weak; they passed sickly yellow bulbs only occasionally. Leading the way, Sakurafubuki and the chef allowed the sailors gripping him to trail a few steps behind. The shoes of the four men hammered through the steel emptiness. Lifting his head slowly, Ryoma gathered his bearings. If he remembered correctly, they'd taken one left turn and walked up two flights so far. He rapidly sketched a cerebral map.

It occurred to Ryoma that he could still yell as he'd threatened. But glancing up at the hard, thin-lipped scowls of the two sailors, at the impatient, tailored back of Sakurafubuki, and at the powerful shoulders of the cook, he decided that with only a small chance of being heard, it wasn't worth the rebound.

After a silent, tense minute, the sailors exchanged glances over his head. The one to the right whispered in dark amusement, "At least he's light." He shook his half of the weight. Ryoma's eyebrows furrowed irately. The other chuckled and nodded. "I'm glad Boss chose this small one." He bounced Ryoma up in the air slightly to emphasize his words and get a better grasp. The freshman did not appreciate the comparison that rose in his mind: a mother readjusting the weight of a child on her hip. "The others would be a hell of a lot more trouble."

Just as Ryoma took a furious breath to retort, the magnate suddenly burst out, "How much farther?" The sailor's fingers twitched tighter on his right arm. Ryoma closed his mouth, clenching his teeth on the livid comeback anxious to emerge.

The cook jumped and scurried to answer. He turned partially around as he chattered to address his boss a half-step behind. "I-i-it's not much, sir! It's, it's just a, a little longer through these passages than in the main halls."

Sakurafubuki grunted reluctantly.

The group marched up another flight of stairs, took a right at the head, and soon halted before a door. Elaborately carved mahogany, it shocked the eyes in the dim, paint-chipped servants' corridor. The chef reached for the gleaming brass handle with a meaty hand. The door swung outward on well-oiled hinges. Sakurafubuki brushed past the cook and strode arrogantly inside the sunlit room, beckoning them to follow with a curled finger flung above his shoulder.

The room appeared to be an entertainment lounge. Floor-to-ceiling windows along the opposite wall let in bright light. A sliding glass door set in the windows' center opened upon a deck with a view over the frothy blue expanse. The crystals of an elegant chandelier cast rainbows across a large, dark leather couch. A tasteful area rug sat underneath a bamboo coffee table and atop cream carpeting. A huge, flat screen TV was set into the wall to their left. On their right, two more mahogany doors flanked a well-stocked bar – a two-meter-long marble counter, like a kitchen island, that stood about a meter from the wall.

The magnate pulled a cell phone from his pocket, flipped it open, dialed, and demanded, "Hideo! Yes, of course I want to watch it." He was silent, and then his voice flashed, "I know you have the equipment! I bought it! Just get it up on my screen!" He slammed the phone shut.

Sakurafubuki swept behind the bar and then quickly to the couch, large fingers grasping a glass filled with amber alcohol and ice. He settled into the soft-looking curves and clicked on the TV. It hissed and began that ringing so similar to the ringing in one's ears after a rock concert. The image solidified into a live, though private, broadcast of a tennis court. On one side, as if he was a predator preparing for the perfect moment to take his prey, an angry Fuji waited for a serve.

Ryoma gasped, bringing Sakurafubuki's attention to himself and the sailors at a loss beside the door. He snapped, "Just drop him over there." He jerked a thumb toward the corner. Ryoma's face hardened. The two men walked right and released their burden as directed. His feet hit the floor; he overbalanced and ended up crumpled in the corner. Ryoma glared at the workers' receding backs. He flipped green and ebony hair out of one livid, rhyolite eye with a toss of his head. Squirming around, he got his legs straightened before him and his back against the wall.

No one paid him any more attention. Sakurafubuki had invited the other three to join him, and now they were all absorbed in the match – laughing and taunting and making snide comments about his senpai.

Ryoma now felt free to tug at the rope around his wrists with numb hands. He pulled and jerked and struggled, but it only seemed to tighten. He fought not to growl his frustration. Instead, he forced himself to take a deep breath. Slower this time, he contorted his hand to trace the knot with deadened fingertips. Hoping it didn't matter where he started, he picked at one rope twist with a nail. He began to lose count of the number of times he tried to loosen it.

* * *

"Tezuka," whispered Inui over his shoulder, "we have to get out of here." His rectangular, white-lens glasses slipped down his nose.

He, Tezuka, Kawamura, and Oishi were lashed together, backs to one another, with a long length of rope wrapped around their communal midsection. Kikumaru, Momo, and Kaidoh were similarly bound nearby. They seemed to be quietly arguing about the same topic.

"Kaidoh, no, that will never work!" Momo snapped in a low voice.

The Viper hissed, "I don't hear you coming up with anything better!"

Kikumaru wriggled in the ropes. "Look," he whispered optimistically, "if anyone can get out of these, it's me. So – no worries!"

Oishi asked quietly, "Inui, do you have an idea?" Two black locks across his forehead flew up as he jerked his head to see the other senior out of the corner of his eye.

"Actually, no," Inui admitted. "Other than somehow untying ourselves, I can't think of any other options."

Kawamura cringed, his thick, brown eyebrows wrinkling together. If Inui didn't know, they were really in big trouble.

Closing his eyes, Tezuka sighed.

* * *

Pleasure kindled in rhyolite ovals. At last, Ryoma pulled his hands free of the rope. As he brought them forward, he froze suddenly, glancing in his captors' direction. They seemed to notice nothing. He relaxed with a sigh. Rubbing his wrists, he inspected the chafe marks with his good eye. He shook painful tingles into ice-cold skin. When his fingers finally had more life in them than sticks, he lightly brushed them over his face to assess his wounds. He winced and jerked them away. The second time they explored with greater care, finding swelling along the left side of his jaw and eye, and two welts left behind by a ring on his right cheek. A small bit of dried blood on his lip felt crusty under delicate, still-prickling fingertips.

Ryoma dropped his hands to his thighs, flicking uncertain eyes once more toward Sakurafubuki and the others. They were still absorbed in Fuji's match, barely bothering to glance his way once every five minutes. He bent forward and quickly untied the bonds around his ankles. Then he soothed that irritated skin.

He took a deep breath. Now, which door? The one next to the bar on his right was the closest, with the advantage of being hidden behind their backs. Unfortunately, it could open onto anything – a hall, a bathroom, a closet. He might be seen if he took the one to the corridor, but he did know the way back from there. He nodded to himself. It was risky, yes, but not as dangerous as wasting his only chance on a closet.

The boy stood carefully with a hand to the wall for balance. As he tiptoed across the carpet, shallow breaths shook in and out of his chest. Almost there. Almost, almost! He stretched out a hand toward the brass doorknob.

"Hey!" one of the sailors cried. "He's escaping!"

Ryoma yanked open the mahogany door with a crash and flew down the passageway. He threw a frightened, one-eyed glance over his right shoulder. The chef and both sailors pursued him, yelling. He had never run so fast, not even on the court for a match point. The stairs rushed quickly into view and he skidded on the painted metal floor as he turned left. A hand thrust to the rail barely kept him on his feet. He practically took wing down the steps; the floor flashed up to meet talons that transformed into small, pattering feet.

He panted as he ran. He struggled to recall the next steps – to reverse them in his mind while he followed their course backward. Soon, soon there should be another stairwell. _Where?_ he asked himself franticly, _Where is it?_ Footsteps pounded in his wake. _There!_ But he was running too quickly and crashed into the newel post as he tried to turn. Ryoma tumbled down the steps, coming to rest in a heap on the landing. He looked up. The chef's right foot stepped into his field of vision, followed by the rest of his beefy body. They stared at each other for a moment that stretched out and out. Then the boy scrambled to his feet. He leapt, taking the entire next half-flight of stairs in a reckless bound. His heel snagged on the final step, jarring his whole skeleton. Quickly, he found his stability; Ryoma thrust off with his other foot and whirled down the third flight.

He felt his steady pulse beat in his bruises, against his sternum, in his flying legs. The uniform pumping of his arms at his sides pocketed some of his fear, allowing him to fall into the mindset of his daily routine, only faster and much more pressing. The familiar tug of air into and out of his lungs bolstered him. A shout from behind abruptly jerked him back into the present. Fright washed over him again. His sweaty shirt stuck to his back.

_Where am I headed?_ he asked inside his head as he burst out of the servants' halls, _The locker room? No, too many guards. No chance. Wait – Fuji-senpai!  
_

_

* * *

_

"Shhh!" shushed Kawamura suddenly. "Do you hear that?"

The hushed arguments fell silent. Oishi whispered, "It sounds like… someone running."

Momo's deep violet eyes spread wide with hope. "Do you think… maybe it's… Echizen? Did he get free?"

Of a sudden, all seven began wrenching at their bonds. The men thrust off from the white-tiled walls and brandished their weapons in the players' faces, berating them for their hot-headed, useless stupidity. Hard eyes glared up helplessly.

Someone burst into the outer locker room, hollering, "We need backup! The boy's getting away!" Two-thirds of the dozen or so men instantly peeled off and disappeared through the broken doorway.

The Seigaku tennis team cheered and redoubled their efforts toward freedom.

* * *

Ryoma hesitated in mid-step. Was that a cheer? A cheer for _him? _No, that must be a mere figment. Nevertheless, he glanced over his right shoulder. Only two men pursued him now. His brow puckered. What happened to the third? But then suddenly an entire army flooded into the corridor. The boy gasped and ran faster. The end of the passageway appeared endlessly distant. Sunlight slanted in from the tennis court, beckoning him. Hundreds of feet hammered after him on marbled flooring. Tons of atmospheric pressure condensed around him, muffling his dash until he felt like he ran through molasses. He wouldn't make it!

Suddenly, he burst triumphantly out onto the sun-drenched court. Wasting no time to count his blessings, he yelled, "Fuji-senpai!"

The buzzing crowd gasped as one. "Who…?" they muttered, shifting in their seats. "What…?"

Fuji dropped the hand of his winning, nameless opponent and whirled away from the net. His brown hair glinted gold in the sun, and he squinted.

Sailors spilled out of the opening like demons out of hell, hot in pursuit. Ryoma shouted a bit desperately, "Come on!" He then locked his good eye on the other entry directly across from him.

The senior forcibly swallowed his shock. Still clutching his racket, he tore over the court, aiming for the same exit. Three guards assigned to watch Fuji took off as well. The rich audience fell silent, spell-bound. As the two boys' paths merged, they realized that both wore the outfits of Seigaku tennis players. But then why were the ship's crewmen pursuing these two guests?

Together, Fuji and Ryoma shot into and down a relatively shadowy, lavish hall. Fuji's racket pumped at his side. He panted, "What's going on?" The thundering of two pairs of feet drowned out in the addition of a dozen more from behind.

Ryoma gasped, "I… escaped. And I thought… you could use some help." He glanced with a brash, hazel eye to his left, to his senpai.

Fuji smiled; blue eyes disappeared under the folds of pale lids. He chose not to say that it was Ryoma himself who seemed to need the help. The prodigy queried, "Do you have a plan?"

The kouhai averted his good, right eye and shrugged, chagrinned. Then Ryoma abruptly hissed and staggered to a halt, seizing his left calf. Fuji exclaimed, "Echizen!" As he spun back in dismay and uncertainty, a glimpse of spreading, victorious grins over Ryoma's shoulder drove him faster. Transferring the racket to his left hand, he swept an arm around the shorter boy's shoulders, bringing him into a hobbling run.

"Thanks," Ryoma choked out. Without prompting, he added after a moment, "Cramp. Couldn't warm up." He tried to shove the new pain aside with all the rest, but it was growing impossible. His severe limp slowed them, even as his senpai took more and more of his weight until he was essentially being half-carried. Ryoma breathed out shakily, allowing himself a brief spell of frailty. He leaned into the warm side of his senpai. At long last he had an ally, and he was so worn out… .

Fuji murmured in response to Ryoma's explanation, "I figured as much." He could hear the sailors getting closer. Two young, weary athletes were apparently not quite a match for furious thugs. He cast aside the racket with a clatter, bringing his other arm around the injured boy. It occurred to him that it would be easier, faster, and less awkward to simply pick up his kouhai. His proud, strong-willed kouhai who would never, ever allow it… . A gentle, upward curve of lip broadened. With a characteristic, startling lack of introduction, Fuji declared anyway, "Let me carry you."

The frailty evaporated. Ryoma jerked and answered too rapidly, "What? No." When Fuji gave him a still-cheery look that somehow said he was being foolish, he stated more firmly, "_No."_ He thought, _I've had enough of being hauled around. __**No more.**_ Not even the increasing din of approaching boots on the hunt had the power to change his mind. He shoved away from the brown-haired senior to shamble along on his own, muttering, "Just… go on alone." In that pain-hazed moment of anger, he didn't care that the sailors would surely catch him without Fuji's help.

"Echizen," protested Fuji, turning around. Sapphire emerged. "Don't be stupid." He started to rush back for the freshman.

But it was too late. The men swarmed over Ryoma. Soon he was almost totally buried under the onslaught. The limited options raced through Ryoma's mind, debated and chosen in an instant. He shouted, "Senpai! Run!"

The senior hesitated. In the dimness, a small hand reached for him between the thick, muscled arms that fought to subdue its fighting spirit. One wide, hazel eye pleaded over splayed fingers even as a muffled voice urged, "_Run!_" Fuji lingered for a long moment and then reluctantly backed away, filled with guilt at obeying fear against his own instinct to fight and protect. "_RUN!" _The last view he saw before he began to sprint was the pile of men withdrawing, a python slithering backward into its den with a full belly and an evil satisfaction in its eye. Several sets of feet clattered after him. He flinched when a loud, fleshy _Crack!_ echoed down mahogany wall paneling. He ducked his head, eyes squeezed shut, and kept running. Diminishing scuffling faded into the distance.

* * *

The thickset cook smirked down at the freshman's outspread, unconscious form. Short, black-and-green hair fanned out on the marble floor, framing marks on the angular face. Still admiring his workmanship, he cheerfully reported into a portable radio that the escapee had been recaptured. The device crackled, and a voice on the other end snapped, "Bring him back here." The cook paused, swallowed at the tone, and grudgingly informed the voice that another had gotten away now, instead. Ominous crackling emitted from the speaker. Finally, the voice sneered, "I know. I saw it on the screen. Go. Get. Him." The cook unsteadily replied that he'd of course take care of it. He hung the now-quiet radio onto his belt. Breathing in, he barked instructions to the crew. They dragged the silent, limp body back through the halls, avoiding the tennis court, at last dumping the boy in the lounge.

Sakurafubuki strode up to the slender, recumbent body folded (bridal style) over the forearms of one his men. The boy's head draped backward. Long eyelashes formed double crescents of lace on pale cheeks. A scheming leer arose within the confines of his thin, brown goatee. He lifted a hand, directing, "Bring him through here." He swaggered to the door between the bar and the wall of windows, pushing it open. Entering first, he flicked on the light. "Lay him down on the floor." The worker obeyed and then straightened, waiting. "Now leave." The man saluted and came about. Sakurafubuki shut the door on his retreating back with a smug smile and a soft click.

* * *

P.S. Are the characters believable? Please give me feedback. (FYI: "coming about" is a sailing term for turning around.)


	6. Chapter 5

**WARNING:** This chapter contains an explicit rape scene. If you don't want to read it - which would be weird, since I warned you in the summary, and, really, I think it's the best part - stop after the second line. It starts with "Consciousness expanded slowly..."

A/N: Riasha, you were right about Ryoma fighting back. It's fixed now! (And greatly lengthened.) All hail Riasha! Thank you very much for pointing out my embarrassingly large mistake. I want to be better! (Ooh, nice segue - please review!)

**Chapter 5**

Fuji hardly dared to breathe. Muffled shouts and curses seeped in around the doorjamb. Darkness enveloped him. He crouched, unwilling to risk moving farther into the custodial closet for fear of knocking something over. As it was, mops, brooms, and a giant trash can pressed close to him, just barely discernible in the dimness. A sliding gait grew louder, closer. He held his breath; blue eyes opened wide. Two dark shapes cut off the slit of yellow light underneath the door. The handle turned.

"Mamoru! We're leaving!" Fuji jumped at the sudden yell, and then scrambled to catch a toppling mop. He gingerly tilted it back up. A disgusted huff and muttering reached his ears, uttered from right in front of the door. The other called again, "Where are you? Hurry up!" That voice moved closer. "Come on, he's not here." An assenting, irritated sigh breathed out. The doorknob shifted back and the light grew unbroken again. Fuji nearly collapsed in relief. His heart still raced; blood rushed in his ears. He felt dizzy and weak.

He continued to wait in the closet until silence rang for several minutes. Standing up, he staggered on benumbed, wobbly legs. The doorknob turned easily in his hand. He pushed it open and peered cautiously around the opulent, almost rococo concert hall. The tennis prodigy stepped out into the house, tense and ready. Nothing happened. He exhaled shakily.

They were gone.

This thought spread over the screen of his mind's eye. It glowed briefly, flickered, and then faded away. In its place, a little hand, slender fingers splayed out, stretched toward him. A bruised face tightened with determination and thinly disguised fear. A boy's alto cry of, "Run!" echoed through him. Fuji's breathing hitched.

"Echizen," he whispered, "please be okay."

No one answered him.

* * *

Fuji lurked down a side hallway, peeking furtively around the corner at the locker room door 10 meters away. No sound came from it. No guards stood outside it. There was nothing to arouse suspicion.

Yet, his heart pounded. Fuji swallowed, nodding to himself. He steeled his spine and began to step forward.

Someone snatched at his elbow. "Oi, aren't you from Seigaku?" The tennis prodigy jumped so high that when he tried to pivot to face the voice, he ended up on his butt on the floor.

The young man before him lifted his hands to shoulder height, palms forward. He moved back to give the other space. "Wow, sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to scare you."

_He's not a guard._ Fuji sagged into a relieved puddle of melted gelatin. He pushed to his feet and rearranged his face into some semblance of his smiling composure. "Who are you?" he asked automatically. But then he gasped. Stepping toward the other, Fuji's eyes widened and he asked excitedly, "Echizen?" He faltered, frowned and looked closer. This boy had inky black hair with a green sheen, just like Ryoma Echizen. Yet, Fuji needed to look up slightly to meet his hazel eyes. His face was more mature than Ryoma's; he was more muscular and more broad through the shoulder.

The boy lifted his dark eyebrows. "Yeah, how did you know?"

Fuji's jaw dropped. "W-what? _Really?_"

The other blinked. "Yeah. The name's Ryoga Echizen. I'm the captain of Sakurafubuki's tennis team."

The second half of the other's statement was drowned out with the implications of the first. The prodigy was speechless. His mouth worked, yet nothing came out. Finally, he asked, "Are you related to Ryoma Echizen?"

The boy sighed, but chuckled fondly. "Chibisuke? He's my little brother." Another laugh burst out of him at the expression Fuji's face. "I guess he never told you about me, huh? Figures."

Fuji at last gathered together his wits. Remembering his manners, he held forth his hand and said, "I'm Syusuke Fuji. And yes, I do go to Seigaku with Echizen."

Ryoga shook hands. "Yeah, your shirt gives you away." He gestured to Fuji's blue-and-white shirt printed on the upper left with the word, "Seigaku." He himself wore a patterned gray, black, and white jacket flapping loose over long black slacks. "So, where's my brother? I want to see him." Fuji's face closed down. Ryoga shrugged nonchalantly, though he was slightly miffed. "Hey, I just figured, since you're from Seigaku, you'd know why he's not playing his match. But if that's not the case… ." He brushed past Fuji and swept down the hall toward the locker room.

"Wait!" Fuji called frantically, dashing into the main hall. "Wait." Ryoga turned, brow lifted. Fuji hesitated, debating. The boy set out again. "No, wait, I'll tell you! Just – come back around the corner."

Ryoga's nostrils flared in annoyance, and his mouth tightened. But when he saw Fuji's eyes flick nervously up and down the hall, and the tight way he held himself, Ryoga couldn't help but be curious. Once he stood before Fuji again, he demanded, "So?"

Fuji licked his lips and took a deep breath. He appraised Ryoga's hard, arrogant eyes. Even though he was the captain of the other team and might be in cahoots with the felonious Sakurafubuki, Fuji doubted it. He felt that those eyes were too clear and honest, too much like his brother's. Deciding that he had no choice but to trust him, Fuji quickly spilled forth his story.

Once Fuji was done, Ryoga shook his head in disgust. "Somehow that doesn't totally surprise me." Ryoga raked his hand through his black hair and fisted it painfully. "That bastard! I knew he was cold, but _this_?" Gritting his teeth, he marched past Fuji again.

Fuji grabbed his arm. "Wait! We can't just barge in! There are too many of them." Ryoga slid a furious stare up from the hand clutching his arm into the piercingly anxious, blue eyes. Fuji tightened his hold. "Besides," the prodigy whispered, jerking his chin toward the door, "Echizen isn't in there. We don't know _where_ he is, remember?"

Ryoga jerked his arm away, but faced Fuji. "Fine. Then what do you suggest?" His tone dripped with sarcasm that masked worry.

A gentle, optimistic smile spread and hid Fuji's eyes. "We free the rest of my teammates and split up to look for him."

Ryoga snorted. "Then why did you stop me?"

The prodigy shrugged. "Well, before you showed up, I was going to let myself be captured so I and my friends could use this." He slipped a small pocketknife out from under a soft, tight wristband Ryoga hadn't noticed before.

"And now?" Ryoga asked.

"I don't know."

Silence surrounded them for several moments. Finally, Ryoga announced, "I do."

* * *

Consciousness expanded slowly, bringing with it distant, vaguely muddied sensations. Exhaustion unrelievedly tugged at his body. He didn't possess enough energy to even blink open his puffy eyes. He ached all over, he came to know, the right side of his head pounding loudest with each rhythmic heartbeat. He gagged slightly on the formless odor of cigar smoke. A swirl of cool air caressed his flesh. His skin quivered in response, and goose bumps erupted over him. Some sort of warmth lay along his entire left side. Inside his fatigued insensibility crawled the utter quiet – the silence before the storm when all the insect and animal sounds have fled.

He lied there on something plush for what felt a long time, which in reality was probably mere moments. He never woke up easily, but he knew, somehow, that this time he could not afford that luxury. Instinct honed over millennia screamed that something was wrong. Something very wrong and something extremely important.

He pried apart unwilling eyelids. He winced when the bruised muscles around his left eye twitched against painful swelling. One half-opened and one fully opened eye stared up at the white, stippled ceiling. It appeared really, really far away, he mused dazedly. Then his eyebrows lowered and his mouth puckered in confusion.

_Where are my clothes?_

This realization took a moment for him to process. Suddenly, he was wide awake. He bolted upright. He jerked his knees in toward his chest to cover himself. He wrapped his arms tightly around them. His good, right eye roved wildly.

He huddled on a dwarfing, four-poster bed, large enough for at least four ghostly doppelgangers to sleep around him. An antique chest stooped at the foot of the bed. A mound of tasseled pillows behind him crawled toward the headboard's summit. At the two o'clock position (to his right and a little in front) a sturdy dresser hugged the wall. Above it dangled a watercolor of a single sakura tree in bloom; nearby, a Tiffany lamp cast muted, colored light. Shrinking adjacent to the corner at eleven o'clock, a carved door led God-knew-where. Upholstered in black leather, a winged armchair crouched in the shadowed corner directly to his left, separated from the bed by a bamboo nightstand.

When he jerked his head to see the armchair with his good eye, something beside him lifted itself up. He scrambled away with an embarrassing squeak.

Sakurafubuki propped himself up on an elbow, gazing, unperturbed, at Ryoma. Rhyolite widened in fear, locked onto the eyes of the other. They stared in silence for a long time. Ryoma broke first and looked down at his tightly-gripped knees, shoulders hunching. Green-glinting, black hair swung and hid a portion of his face.

Sakurafubuki pushed himself upright. He reached out and traced a gentle fingertip along Ryoma's right flaming cheek, hooking it under his chin. Ryoma couldn't suppress a disgusted shiver as the other turned his face up to his. The middle-aged man's visage expressed a loving tenderness, but the eyes… . Those dark, half-lidded caves betrayed the tycoon with some emotion, something Ryoma had never seen before. It was… about power, and an insatiable hunger. It was something bestial.

The man smiled slightly as he gazed into those confused eyes he'd so often seen proud and arrogant in his videos. He cupped the boy's unhurt cheek, running a thumb along soft lips. He sighed, "You are so beautiful."

The puzzle pieces suddenly plunged into place for Ryoma in that instant, and he understood – everything. He flashed a panicked look toward Sakurafubuki and bolted toward the door. He twisted the handle – tugged, pushed, rattled, wrenched the door in heart-pounding desperation, but it didn't budge.

Sakurafubuki leaned back on his hands. His eyes freely roamed across the boy's nude backside, inhaling sharply as athletic muscles rippled under pale, heated flesh. The boy slowly dropped his hands to his sides and stood, head down. Ebony hair fell forward again into a swollen eye. At last, the tennis player looked back toward the four-poster bed. To a stranger, nothing would seem to show on his face. But the magnate had watched countless tapes of this same deadpan boy, and he could detect the faintest marks of fear still, and of gathered courage. But then, Sakurafubuki expected nothing less. He allowed pleasure to twitch his lips into a smile. Rising from the bed, he glided toward the object of his lust.

Ryoma panted in terror. He was trapped! There were no others doors or windows, no other means of escape. He turned around in slow motion. With wide eyes, he watched the man approach. There wasn't enough air in the room anymore. The walls were closing in around him. Claustrophobia tightened its noose around his neck.

He forced himself to take a deep gulp of the stale, smoke-stained air. No, wait! Sakurafubuki's nearly here; the man is almost right in front of him! Ryoma gasped. His eyes slid past the tycoon and alighted on the glowing Tiffany lamp.

Ryoma darted across the room and snatched it up. Sakurafubuki started in surprise. "Stay away from me!" Ryoma threatened. He gripped the lamp's base like it was a two-handed sword.

The tycoon's face twisted in annoyance. "Put down the lamp," he commanded. "You're being foolish."

Ryoma sneered. Sakurafubuki stepped toward the nude boy, hand outstretched as if expecting the freshman would willingly place the lamp within it. Ryoma backed up until his back smacked into the wall, swinging the light back and forth. The cord flopped and tore out of the outlet; the glass shade's mosaic died in the sudden darkness.

The magnate rushed in, fumbling for the makeshift weapon. Ryoma lifted it over his shoulder like a baseball bat and swung. He shattered the glass shade against Sakurafubuki's chest. The man cried out, more in surprise than pain, as the colors rained down, tinkling at their feet. Ryoma wildly brandished the jagged remnants of the lamp. The tycoon hurriedly stepped back out of its path. The boy followed him, his hard, hazel eyes intent. Glass shards crunched and sliced into his bare foot.

The boy automatically danced off the sharp fragments to stand trembling, only a meter from Sakurafubuki. Sakurafubuki saw his chance and snatched for the light. It jerked out of the freshman's sweaty palms. Ryoma's empty hands tingled. Trickles of blood slowly spread out around his right foot, trailing between the wooden floorboards.

Sakurafubuki, his eyes locked on the naked freshman, thunked the lamp back on the dresser with one hand. His face pinched with pain, Ryoma darted his eyes about the room. No other weapons seemed near. Desperation pumped life-blood through Ryoma's body with a thrumming beat. His bare skin glistened in a cold sweat. His eyes latched onto the glass shards at the man's feet. A reckless smirk tugged at his lips. He dived for a knife-shaped piece. As his left hand closed about its wide, jagged base, he felt a hand rake through his hair and fist tightly. Ryoma felt his skin give around the sharp edges of the glass knife. Pain flamed up, and he very nearly released it out of reflex. As Sakurafubuki jerked the boy's head up to meet his own large, drawn-back fist, Ryoma brought up the glass, and sliced just above the man's knee.

Ryoma mentally swore. He hadn't had a good grip on the glass; the cut he'd made was shallow. His fingers uncurled of their own accord, and the glass blade clattered to ground. Blood seemed to pour out of his hand.

Sakurafubuki bellowed in pain and fury, his leg threatening to buckle. He released the boy's soft hair and backhanded the startled boy, who toppled back.

Clutching his soaked-red, left knee, with two limps, he was beside Ryoma. Growling in frustration, he repeatedly kicked the difficult, stubborn boy in the ribs. Ryoma choked on a half-inhaled breath. He groaned and writhed away, finally to his knees. With scarlet trickling down from his loosely curled left palm, he clutched his right, throbbing side with his other hand and scrambled away on all fours.

Ryoma reached the door, rose to his knees, and began clawing at it. With a fist, he banged on its dark, carved surface, shouting for help.

Still putting pressure on his knee, Sakurafubuki hobbled after the freshman. "Ryoma!" he roared. As he neared, he stomped on Ryoma's injured foot. The boy cried out. The magnate clamped his free hand on Ryoma's mouth, cutting off the boy's yells. The freshman struggled. Sakurafubuki tightened his hold, bracing the boy's head against his stomach.

Ryoma's nostrils flared in an effort to suck in enough air. He pulled at the man's hand and inhaled sharply through the subsequent gap. The man released the hold he had on his own knee and clamped his tanned, blood-slicked hand on the boy's naked shoulder. Sakurafubuki yanked the freshman to his feet and slammed Ryoma's back against the door. The boy let out a surprised grunt. Sakurafubuki's forearm pinned the boy's heaving chest to the door. The man glared in a jaw-clenched, murderous silence, unable to articulate his rage. The rush of movement through the room abruptly ceased.

The sudden quiet echoed deafeningly in Ryoma's ears. Blood slowly slid from his fingertips and dripped into the small, slowly spreading pool around his foot. The freshman felt every rough stitch of the man's tuxedo against his bare skin. Something else, something underneath that so-expensive raiment, pressed hard against his stomach. He froze. Then Ryoma's anger flared again. An affected smirk spread across his lips as he taunted, "So, you've really fallen so far that this is how you get laid?"

Sakurafubuki raised his eyebrows, threw his head back, and laughed aloud. Ryoma jumped. The man brought his head back down and shook it back and forth, murmuring with amusement, "I nearly forgot why you're so adorable." He tapped a gentle finger to Ryoma's bewildered nose and answered, "Perhaps I _have_ fallen, as an angel would." He stroked Ryoma's black hair. "But it is more that you have seduced me. Irresistibly. I invited you and your teammates here with hopes of consummating that seduction. You have no idea how long I waited, how many times I watched videos of your matches."

Ryoma jerked away from the hand. "Don't. Touch. Me," he growled. The older male ignored him and merely began to hum a familiar Japanese lullaby as he slowly slid down the length of Ryoma's battered body. His knees settled onto the pale, bloodied hardwood, and the two were eye to eye, pressed together still.

Sakurafubuki's expression was oddly content – wrongly serene. He slid his touch up from bare knees, smearing blood on the boy's skin; along the outside of pale, tense thighs; up sleek hips; around a thin waist. His large, tanned hands, lined with experience, stood out against flawless, smooth white.

Revulsion made Ryoma's skin try to creep away without him. Bile rose in his throat. He swallowed it back and gritted his teeth. Ryoma jerked his right knee up into the man's groin. Sakurafubuki gasped, folding over with the pain. His eyes bulged. The freshman shoved; the magnate fell back on his heels and nearly toppled over, but kept his hold on the boy. The strange affection exploded from the man's eyes, replaced with rage that narrowed the man's mouth. His hands disappeared from the boy's chest and materialized again around Ryoma's throat. Jaw clenched, he squeezed.

Ryoma's eyes shot wide. He made small choked sounds as he fought to breathe. His face reddened. He tugged at the man's fingers, bending them back. Ryoma's blood smeared across them. The man's eyes feasted on the plight of the freshman. As Sakurafubuki tightened his hold against the tugging, he leaned in. "Stop fighting," he whispered. "It is useless. You cannot win, not against me."

At those words, determination kindled in the boy's hazel eyes. He lifted his lip with a silent snarl. He tried to kick the man in the groin again, but Sakurafubuki kicked the boy's leg aside with surprising agility. His grip then constricted until Ryoma could get no air at all. The boy's mouth fell open in silent surprise. His lungs burned with the need for oxygen.

Sakurafubuki smiled at the boy struggling between his blood-streaked hands. "See? I told you: there is nothing that you can do. Nothing." The man shuddered in pleasure as he watched the boy slowly suffocate. But with a reluctant sigh, he loosened his hold. Ryoma gasped and gulped in precious air. As he panted, the deep red of his face slowly paled.

"You're wrong," Ryoma rather foolishly declared between gasps.

"Am I?" asked Sakurafubuki softly. He squeezed.

Priceless air slowly abandoned Ryoma. Terror ignited within him as death inched closer once again. "No!" Ryoma choked out.

The man chuckled, moving in to nuzzle Ryoma's neck. "What, so soon?" he breathed. "So soon you begin to beg?" At the very thought, Sakurafubuki felt his slacks grow even tighter around his hips. His hands eased off again; he stroked his thumbs across a quivering Adam's apple.

The man's wet tongue darted across Ryoma's blood-covered skin frantic with a galloping pulse. The taste of copper whetted his appetite. The freshman thrust Sakurafubuki's head off his neck. He swallowed and forced power into his voice. "Don't."

Sakurafubuki suddenly snarled into Ryoma's face, "Do not dare presume to tell an elder what to do or not do. _I_ will tell _you_." He waited; the wide-eyed boy said nothing. Sakurafubuki relaxed and smiled. "There, see?" He lifted his left hand from Ryoma's throat to his soft hair. "If you just follow my directions, it will be… wonderful." He dove his hand through the green and black hair, fisting it at the back of the boy's head in passion. He forced their lips together.

Small protesting grunts huffed breath against Sakurafubuki's skin. The man shivered with pleasure. The boy's lips brushed so softly against his own. So pink and full were they, almost like a female's, but infinitely better. He never felt a rush like this with a woman. The boy _needed _him – he was so young, so vulnerable, so full of fear; he needed a protector. (Just look at how easily he was overpowered!) And who better than he himself, who loved Ryoma Echizen more than anything, the man who loved him so much that he couldn't bear not to share his overwhelming adoration?

And yet, this boy he loved didn't seem to care – not about his feelings, his love, nothing. Ryoma still insisted on commanding him. After all the time they'd spent together, Ryoma _knew_ that that was what he hated most.

Well, he wouldn't get away with it.

Sakurafubuki drew back from those magnetic lips. But then, that look Ryoma gave him – so revolted, so afraid – excited him. The boy remembered how much he liked that and performed for him. Oh, Ryoma did love him after all.

But when the man brought his lips back in for another kiss, Ryoma bit down.

Sakurafubuki yanked his head back; his eyes filled with tears. "Why do you do this to me?" he wailed. "Why do you dangle affection before me and then snatch it away?"

Ryoma blinked. That wasn't at all a reaction that he expected.

The saltwater dried up. Sakurafubuki leaned in and hissed into Ryoma's wide-eyed face, "If you misbehave again, I will kill you. I didn't want it to come to this, but..." He slid his right hand toward an inner breast pocket of his tuxedo and drew out a black, 9mm pistol. Ryoma's heart faltered. The man tapped the barrel against the boy's left temple. "Do not think that I would not do it. I have killed before." Sakurafubuki let a predatory grin spread within the thin lines of his goatee.

Ryoma's mouth went desert dry. His shallow breaths shook.

"No more theatrics, right?" the man murmured. Ryoma nodded; the icy barrel rubbed up and down against his skin. "Good boy," Sakurafubuki crooned. He stroked the boy's half-parted lips with the pistol. "Shall we, then?"

Without waiting for a reply, he grabbed Ryoma's thin forearm. The man dragged the boy, stumbling and limping, to the four-poster and threw him on. The startled boy bounced and tried to claw away. Sakurafubuki snatched at and crawled atop him, pressing him into the bed with his own weight. The tall man growled as he yanked Ryoma's slender arms above the boy's head, both wrists compressed in a large, one-handed grip. He jammed the gun into the underside of Ryoma's chin, snarling, "I _will_ pull this trigger." He cocked the pistol. Sakurafubuki felt the boy's heart try to pound hard enough to join the one in his own chest.

Wide-eyed, Ryoma shook his head in little jerks. He had difficulty inhaling enough air to speak with the man's weight bearing down on him. "No," he finally whispered shakily. "I won't do anything."

"Excellent," Sakurafubuki murmured. With a metallic thud, he placed the gun on the nightstand to his right. The man then cupped the boy's cheek and moved in for a third kiss.

The freshman, immobile and helpless, squeezed his eyes shut. His hand and foot throbbed, leaking blood onto the sheets. His entire body ached from the beatings he had taken that day. Tides of revulsion and anger swept over him. He desperately wished he was somewhere else, anywhere else on Earth, just as long as it wasn't here.

Sakurafubuki's breath against his face reeked of cigar smoke. The tycoon gave a soft peck on the boy's perfect, pink mouth. Then he slowly licked Ryoma's lips from one side to the other. "Open your mouth," he murmured. The freshman didn't respond. The hand against Ryoma's cheek suddenly seized the boy's chin. With fingers gouging into the jaw hinge, the magnate forced the boy's mouth open. Hazel eyes flew wide. Sakurafubuki pressed another kiss on the parted mouth before sucking the boy's lower lip between his own teeth. He gently bit down. He then slid his thick tongue inside. Ryoma cringed. After thoroughly exploring the inside of the boy's mouth, Sakurafubuki finally pulled back with a satisfied smile.

Sakurafubuki continued to hold onto the boy's wrists with his left hand while the other stretched toward the nightstand again. A drawer slid; Ryoma heard a rustle and then another slide. The mogul forced a strip of cherry red fabric between the boy's teeth and awkwardly jerked a knot tight around Ryoma's head with one hand and his own teeth. He gazed down at his handiwork with a smile that faded. A frown replaced it. "Oh, now look. I cannot kiss you."

Sakurafubuki peered down at the boy for a long moment, mentally sighing at those beautiful features. He luxuriated in the feel of that small naked form underneath him. But he wanted skin-to-skin contact. He nuzzled the boy's cheek. Sakurafubuki flicked his tongue out – a quick, wet touch against the boy's ear. Rhyolite flinched. The man's breath sped up in Ryoma's ear. He whispered, "Soon, now. Soon you will realize how much I love you."

He drew back. Reaching for a third time, his hand returned with a coil of rope. Ryoma inhaled sharply through his nose. Sakurafubuki grinned. He slid himself up the boy's body until he sat on the boy's chest, one knee beside each shoulder. Ryoma's nostrils flared; his chest quivered as he fought to bring in sufficient air. Sakurafubuki lifted the boy's hands to eye level. Rough texture brushed Ryoma's wrists. Sakurafubuki saw forearm muscle tighten only an instant before Ryoma reflexively jerked his hands down. "Stop!" the man commanded. Ryoma froze. The man hissed, "This is your last warning. Your** last. **Next time, I will shoot you." His dark eyes glittered with unforgiving intent.

He waited. When nothing happened, he finished tying one end of the rope around the boy's wrists. Flinging tasseled pillows to the floor, he leaned over and knotted the other end on a wooden post of the headboard.

He slipped off the bed. Ryoma remained motionless, following the man's movements with frightened eyes. Sakurafubuki smiled and hummed in approval. Taking two more pieces of rope out of the well-supplied nightstand, the magnate lifted the boy's left foot in one hand and stroked the small toes. He bent the leg up tight to the boy's thigh, and lashed the ankle there. Then he moved to the other foot. "Oh, you are bleeding!" he exclaimed in a tone of worry. Examining it up close, he quickly deemed it minor enough to ignore, and tied that one, too.

Sakurafubuki surveyed the naked boy frog-tied across his rumpled bed. Hands above his head, knees spread wide… Perfect. The tycoon licked his lips. He walked up, reached out and tenderly readjusted the askew, red fabric of the gag.

The man shrugged out of his jacket. As he slowly undressed, he encouraged huskily, "I do not mind if you watch." The boy didn't move. He frowned. Now, that wasn't what he wanted. His boy was more lively than this lump.

In moments, Ryoma felt the edge of the bed sink. "Ryoma," a nude Sakurafubuki crooned. "You do know that I love you, right? I am not doing this to be cruel." He settled a large hand on the boy's head. "If you had only cooperated, I would not have had to hurt you." He waited. "These ties would not have been necessary." He pressed a gentle kiss to Ryoma's forehead. "You see, my only wish is to show you just how much I love you."

Despite himself, Ryoma hadn't completely succeeded in disconnecting from reality. His focus was broken by sudden tenderness. He turned his head toward the man, blinking slowly. Sakurafubuki nodded encouragingly. "That's right, Ryoma. I love you." The freshman stared at him with almost sarcastic disbelief. Sakurafubuki chuckled to himself. His Ryoma was back.

Sakurafubuki settled in along Ryoma's left side. His breaths stirred green-black locks. A finger traced light, endless circles across a small, hairless chest. Ryoma flinched and turned his gaze to the ceiling. The finger was joined by the rest of the large hand, which settled across the width of his stomach. It stroked up and fingered a nipple. Ryoma gasped and tried to pull away. Then the hand slid down and down, past the edge of his ribcage, over his belly button… . When the hand slid over his privates, the twelve-year-old whined like a beaten puppy. Muffled protests emerged through the red gag. The breaths on his hair came faster. The man's hard penis pushed against his hip.

Even as the man's hand began to caress his limp shaft, it felt surreal – like it was happening to someone else. Not him. Surely not him. The hand began to pump on the boy's penis. Shame, humiliation, and loathing bubbled up like festering blisters. _No!_ With a gasp, Ryoma quickly set his thoughts safely on tennis. In his mind's eye, he evaluated Tezuka performing the Zero-Shiki Drop Shot. Didn't Inui say something about his own attempt being 30 degrees off?

The man sighed, "Ryoma." His hand left the boy's genitals. Sakurafubuki straddled the freshman on all fours. Both tanned hands began to stroke down from Ryoma's bound wrists, over the tight forearms and the muscular biceps, past hairless armpits, down to his smooth chest. Then their symmetry split: one hand tweaked a nipple and the other brushed his lower lip over and over. "Ryoma," the man breathed again, "you are so stunning, so young."

The stimulation at his lip stopped; the man fondled the tip of Ryoma's shaft. "Stop it!" Ryoma tried to shout. The freshman could barely stand it. It felt good, and it wasn't supposed to. It was just supposed to be wrong. But it was violating and pleasurable and hateful and embarrassing and shameful all at once, simultaneously, in a single instant. He couldn't wrap his mind around it; he couldn't even name all those tumultuous emotions. He just knew that he desperately wanted it to stop. _Tennis!_ Higuma Otoshi!Ryoma could do that if he chose, he was sure he could. But wait, what was the point in learning it when he himself had proven it could be beaten?

The hands momentarily withdrew. Ryoma sighed in relief. Staring at the ceiling, his mind took refuge in complete immersion in tennis.

The man murmured with a slight smirk, "Do not worry, Ryoma. I will continue pleasuring you shortly." The freshman continued to stare. Sakurafubuki frowned, but shrugged it away. He left the bed briefly and climbed back on with something in his hands. He opened a packet and took a condom out, slipping it on. Sakurafubuki revealed a tube in his other hand. He squirted its contents into a palm and smeared it over his rod.

Then he straddled the boy's hips. Sakurafubuki's mouth went dry in anticipation. Sakurafubuki stroked the boy's small penis again. He got no reaction. His jaw clenched. He slapped Ryoma. Nothing. He backhanded the boy. **Still** nothing. He paused in thought. With a trimuphant smile, he fisted both hands in the boy's hair, leaned close, and taunted, "Your father is an arrogant prick that didn't deserve a single one of his awards. Mentored by an amateur, you will never, ever reach the Nationals. You. Are. Terrible. At. Tennis."

Ryoma blinked. Life returned to rhyolite. "You're wrong," he mumbled around the scarlet gag.

Sakurafubuki shook his head. "No. I am right." Then his hands went around those pale hips and tilted them up. Ryoma's eyes widened. Tricked! NO! This was the last place where he wanted to be! Ryoma tried to close his knees. The man simply leaned over him, blocking the movement with his torso. Sakurafubuki squirted a bit more out of the tube and reached underneath Ryoma, smearing the freshman's opening. The man slid a finger inside that stiff sheath. He absentmindedly crooned, "It's okay, it's okay, just relax," as he stretched out the boy, who silently wept at the violation. Sakurafubuki's breath trembled, turned on by that distress. At last, he replaced his fingers with his spear, pressing himself against the boy's opening. He closed his eyes in excitement. _Finally._ He forced his penis inside. He quivered as the fear-locked muscles slowly began to give way to make room for him. The boy was still so rigid around his own hardness. It felt fantastic.

Ryoma didn't care who, if anyone, heard him break down. He sobbed, tears flowing fast and furious. It felt like he was being stabbed. Sakurafubuki thrust in farther. Streaming eyes wild, Ryoma wailed through the red, muffling fabric. Panic tore at him. He fought to break free of the rope – it dug deeper into his skin with a distant ache. It seemed like there would be no end to the sharp puncturing. The man had shoved himself in to the hilt and paused, but the piercing flames refused to ease. Ryoma's frantic squalls came with choked gasps.

Sakurafubuki wiped saline tears from the boy's cheeks. Ryoma jerked his head away, still crying. The man gave a mental shrug. The boy would soon enough understand and accept his love. He began to pull himself out. The boy's hot, pain-filled cries got louder. He grinned. Then he again pushed inside that close heat. Slowly, he moved in and out, savoring the drying friction.

Ryoma's torment increased as the man started to speed up inside him. His pinched sobs and cries grew in terrified volume. The man panted. Sakurafubuki couldn't hold himself back any longer and began to slam himself inside the boy again and again. Agony shot through the freshman. As Sakurafubuki stroked the boy's chest, his thighs, his penis, Ryoma cringed. His chest ached with the rapid force of his heartbeat. His breath caught on an anguished moan. The man responded with still faster strokes into and over him. Ryoma's eyes squeezed shut, wishing more than anything that he could just find that safe place again.

_Help me!_


	7. Chapter 6

**A/N:** Okay, I updated this chapter a little bit. Just a tad. I needed to add something that's an important detail for the sequel.

**Chapter 6**

Tezuka brushed himself off and readjusted his thin, slightly bent glasses. He gazed over at the others who were also staggering upright and getting themselves reacquainted with a stable floor. Unconscious sailors littered the white tile around them.

Kikumaru shook out his prickling hands, frowning at Oishi. Oishi merely shrugged, unable to stop himself from beaming at everyone and everything. Kikumaru grinned back. Inui pushed his white glasses higher up on his nose as he spoke in low tones with the humble Kawamura. Momo hesitantly approached a gently smiling prodigy. Tezuka heard the junior ask, "Fuji, have you seen Echizen?"

A tall male automatically turned toward Momo with eyebrows lifted, a question waiting in his eyes. But then he slumped and turned back to tennis players whom Tezuka did not recognize. The Seigaku Captain finally had a chance, though, to really look at this stranger that was so familiar – green-and-black hair, hazel eyes, and confidence to the point of arrogance.

Tezuka barely heard Fuji's soft reply, "Yeah, Momo. I have." His words were optimistic, but his tone was gloomy. Alarm fluttered in Tezuka's stomach. He marched toward the pair, loudly demanding of Fuji, "Tell me everything."

Fuji shifted toward Tezuka's booming voice with surprise. The quiet room fell into listening silence. Tezuka added, "Tell us all."

So Fuji spoke of what he had experienced, introducing Captain Ryoga Echizen and his tennis team as he went. He finished, "So we need to go look for Echizen – the sooner, the better."

Tezuka nodded. "Yes." But first, he turned toward Ryoga and bowed. "Thank you very much for the help of you and your team in freeing us." The stern-faced senior met Ryoga's hazel eyes once more. "We would –"

Kaidoh, his match finished, burst into the shower room, panting. He dripped with sweat. "Oi!" he bellowed breathlessly. "Let go of my friends!" He stopped short, surprise and confusion on his face. He blinked around the room and flushed pink. "Um… never mind," he murmured, trying to edge away.

Momo cried, "Mamushi!" He approached the other junior, leaning an elbow on his shoulder. He asked slyly, "Did you think you were going to free us all by yourself? Che. Baka Mamushi."

Kaidoh thrust Momo away, still blushing. "You're the baka, _baka_." Momo only laughed.

Tezuka cleared his throat. Momo's and Kaidoh's faces straightened. "Kaidoh," Tezuka commanded. The junior jerked his chin up with obeisance that was nevertheless angry and competitive_. _"You're with Kawamura and Oishi. Momo… with Kikumaru and Inui. Fuji, you're with me." The Captain had already planned this while they were bound; he purposely paired power players with gentler personalities in the hope that – if that particular group found their freshman – while one or two protected, the other could tend to Echizen, if necessary.

"Hai!" they chorused.

Ryoga Echizen lifted an eyebrow. _What's with this level of respect? _To his teammates, he waved an indifferent hand and directed, "Split yourselves up like they did. Groups of three, one of two." He glanced around. "Oi, where's Shimizu?" _He's the one who was supposed to play against Chibisuke, _Ryoga thought. He called, "Oi!" Then to himself, "What was that guy's name?" Then louder again, "Oi, Kaidoh!" The junior turned his glare toward Ryoga. "Where's Shimizu, the guy you were playing?"

Kaidoh shrugged. "Don't know."

Ryoga strode up to the junior. He leaned in and asked a bit bitingly, "Care to elaborate?"

Kaidoh could even blink angrily, which he did. Then he growled, punching out each word, "The match ended. I left and came here. I didn't see where he went, nor do I care."

Ryoga leaned away and stuffed his hands in his pockets. He sighed. "Well, fine, then," he muttered to himself. "We don't have time to look for him, too." With that, he walked off and joined Fuji and Tezuka's group without a word to the Seigaku duo. "All right, people! Let's go find my brother."

Momo scooped up Ryoma's cap as they departed. Dusting it off, he frowned at it in worried apprehension.

* * *

The crowd waited impatiently for Singles One.

Never would it be forthcoming. At last standing up to leave, one wealthy man could be heard to grumble, "This is the worst, most disappointing waste of a tennis tournament to which I have been an unfortunate witness."

His blonde companion chirped, "But isn't it fun?" He stared at her.

* * *

Kawamura fretted, "I hope we find him soon."

Oishi murmured, "Yeah."

Kaidoh sneered. "Fshuu. He's tough – so stop worrying." He glared until they nodded, looking slightly relieved at his confidence. But when they looked away, the hardness in Kaidoh's expression dissolved, leaving concern.

They continued to slink along the outside deck, peering through large, highly reflective ports with hands pressed against the glass. The late afternoon sun slanted ochre light across their tense faces.

Oishi was jumpy. "What if they catch us again? We're kind of conspicuous."

"Yeah?" Kaidoh growled. "So what?" He moved to the next window. "We have to find Echizen." With a twinge, he thought, _It's a senpai's duty to take care of his kouhai, and we've been failing miserably._

Kawamura suddenly halted, holding up a hand. "Did you hear that?" Kaidoh and Oishi froze, listening. "There it is again! Come on, this way!" The trio clattered a short distance down the deck. Kawamura slid to an abrupt stop just before a straight bay of deck-to-ceiling windows. Oishi and Kaidoh nearly ran into him. Pressing himself against the wall, Kawamura gestured for them to do the same.

Finally, Kaidoh muttered with distaste, "I don't hear anything. You?" Oishi gave a negative.

Kawamura shushed them. For a moment, they still heard nothing, but then Oishi's eyes widened. His voice shook as he whispered, "Is that someone crying?" Mixed with the hushed sobs was a sort of rhythmic creaking. When these were suddenly joined by muffled male moans and gasps of sexual pleasure, the three erupted into motion – crying was never supposed to accompany _that_.

The sliding glass door centered in the bay of windows vibrated with the force of its opening. Three shocked men jerked their heads toward the clanging thud and gaped over the back of a dark, leather couch. They leapt to rather unstable feet, dashing toward the new threat. Kawamura, though he held no racket, yelled with fiery fury as he drew back his fist. The cook – the jerk who had assaulted Ryoma earlier – grunted as a cast-iron blow connected with his jaw. He toppled over the back of the sofa, legs sticking up ridiculously in the air.

On Kawamura's right, Kaidoh kicked in the gut a sailor whose hand was rising toward a hip holster. As he doubled over, the junior gripped the man's head in both hands and snapped his knee up. The guard crumpled to his knees, blood flying in strings from his nose. A white-knuckled fist to the temple knocked him out. Kaidoh glared down at the man's unconscious body, furrowed black eyebrows millimeters apart. He hissed.

To the far left, Oishi felt his heart cracking in sympathy with the unknown, hidden victim. Anger snarled up from his inner depths. His dark eyes spread wide with a frantic need to help, he connected an inexperienced fist to a sailor's face. The guard's head jerked to the right, but then he slowly turned back with a ferocious glare. Oishi involuntarily took a step back. Kawamura roared as he lashed out with a foot. The guard's left knee broke sideways with a loud crunch. He cried out, collapsing onto the floor. Clutching his knee, he rolled back and forth in vociferous anguish.

The chef staggered to his feet on the other side of the mummy-brown couch, glowering with black eyes. He clambered his flabby bulk over it. Kawamura crouched slightly, fists out and ready. The senior's thick, brown eyebrows shadowed intent, focused eyes. As the man's feet hit the pale carpet, Kawamura exploded into action – a powerful kick to the chest, a knee in the groin, and it was already over.

Panting, Kawamura at last appreciated his six years of martial arts training.

The three tennis players then stood in the middle of the lounge, slightly at a loss. Over the snuffling cries of the man with the broken knee, the carnal noises reached their ears again. As one, they surged toward a dark, wooden door to their left.

A crash and a flood of light filtered into Ryoma's battered mind. He blinked, struggling to bring himself back to reality. He turned toward the source and strained to make out the silhouettes. Framed in the rectangle of white light stood Kaidoh, Kawamura, and Oishi, their expressions filled with horrified shock.

The burning thrusts within him gradually slowed and then stopped even as his teammates watched. The man above him shuddered with his release. Ryoma let out an anguished whimper through the scarlet gag and averted his face from his friends. His chest tightened as tears slid over his flushed cheeks.

That quiet sound of pain rocketed them out of their shocked disbelief and confusion. Kawamura and Kaidoh roared with rage as they tore Sakurafubuki off their kouhai. The man's naked back smacked onto the varnished, wood floor. He blinked up at them with unconcerned surprise that slowly crystallized into fear around the edges.

Kaidoh and Kawamura could not look more frightening. In their fury, they seemed to swell to twice their height and breadth. Twin, white-hot volcanoes – elemental and utterly unforgiving – exploded with wrath and flooded over Sakurafubuki. Punches and kicks flew, landing with dry thunks and pinched grunts of pain. The two tennis players bellowed furiously with every blow.

Sakurafubuki lifted his arms up in front of his face, trying to block their raining fists. He scrambled back, but he was no match for these two boys – these boys who had never before felt such overwhelming rage. Their nearly unimaginable level of fury gave them a speed and a power they'd never otherwise possess, leaving Sakurafubuki no chance.

Oishi slammed the door shut behind him, cutting off the flow of white light. He was sorely tempted to join the other two in pummeling that horrible man, but consumed with anguishing concern, he instead rushed over to Ryoma in the dimness. The senior leaned over the edge of the bed and fearfully asked, "Echizen?" The twelve-year-old refused to look at him, but his breathing hitched in response, barely audible through the gag. Oishi relaxed slightly and breathed, "Okay... let me get this off you." He slid his hands behind Ryoma's head, searching for the knot in the red fabric. At the touch, Ryoma jerked and at last turned terrified, weeping eyes to Oishi, beseeching comfort. Oishi shook, frightened to see the arrogant Ryoma Echizen with such an expression. "It'll be okay, Echizen," he answered automatically. He set to work on the knot. "It will all be okay. It'll be all right," he crooned over and over.

The gag slipped loose and came free. Oishi tossed the disgusting thing to the floor. Ryoma's hazel eyes seemed fixed on Oishi as he whispered with chapped lips, "Oishi-senpai?" His voice was feeble.

"Yeah?" the senior replied, as gently as he could.

"Could you…" Ryoma took a shallow breath. "…cover me? Please?" His naked body trembled.

"O-of course!" Oishi cried. He yanked off his Seigaku jacket like it was flaming, and settled it across Ryoma's hips. "I'm so sorry! That should have been the first thing that I did."

Ryoma nodded and closed his haunted eyes. Oishi bit his lower lip. His hands hovered uselessly before setting to work on the rope around Ryoma's pale, bloodless wrists. The Vice Captain did his best to block out the thuds and yelling behind him.

The rope began to loosen; soon it slipped free. Oishi flung it, too, onto the floor. Ryoma left his hands above his head for a long moment. Then he slowly pulled them in toward his chest. Oishi hesitated. He edged his jacket up just far enough to quickly free the boy's small, icy feet. Then he put an arm around the freshman's shoulders. "Come on, Echizen." He gently tried to lift the boy into a sitting position.

Ryoma flinched, eyes flashing, and gasped out, "Stop, Oishi-senpai!" He clutched Oishi's arm, eyes squeezed shut.

"Echizen, what is it?" Oishi asked. Ryoma only shook his head, breath held tight. "What is it?" he asked again, panic entering his tone.

Once the ache abated somewhat, Ryoma glanced up into the frightened eyes of his friend and then looked away. He swallowed. He forced himself to sit up, even though it made the sharp, burning pain strike through him all the way to his head. He moved stiffly, slowly.

Oishi cried, "Echizen!" Ryoma curled his thin, quivering limbs in close and tightly clutched the jacket across his lap. Despite his efforts, tears slid down his cheeks. Oishi had wanted to panic, but at that gesture and those tears, his heart ached and he stuffed down the fear. He wrapped his arms around the boy's hunched shoulders and held him close against his chest. "It's okay now. You're safe."

Ryoma didn't want to cry anymore. He refused to blink – tears would fall if he did. But of course, eventually he had to blink, and saltwater trailed down his cheeks. It seemed to open the floodgates. His hands shot up and fisted in the back of Oishi's shirt. He began to sob. He panted after breath and wailed with heartwrenching misery.

Ryoma had never appeared younger, smaller, or more vulnerable than he did then. Normally, he acted so confidently and was so unbelievably excellent at tennis that he seemed much older, with a nonchalant sort of charismatic stage presence. But right then, he seemed to be no more than what he was – a traumatized twelve-year-old boy.

The sobs penetrated the red film of rage in Kaidoh's and Kawamura's minds. Beyond the foot of the bed, they at last rose and turned away from the unconscious, bloodied pulp of Sakurafubuki. The soft cloth of Kawamura's jacket settled over Ryoma's bare shoulders and atop Oishi's enfolding arms. Streaming hazel eyes lifted to see Kawamura's hands fall back to his sides. Kaidoh rested a comforting hand on Ryoma's back.

Ryoma's tears slowed and eventually stopped. He sniffled, wiping away water. He winced at the pressure on his bruised left eye. Oishi gradually let his arms drift down and out from under the jacket. Ryoma now sat, weak in the aftermath and seeing nothing, though his eyes were open and ostensibly focused on Oishi's chest. The freshman burrowed into Kawamura's too-big jacket. It was still warm with body heat.

Oishi broke the uncomfortable silence by gently inquiring, "Echizen, do you know where your clothes are?" Ryoma slowly shook his head, still staring. The boy's face was unnaturally white. Oishi wondered what he was thinking. The Vice Captain turned to the other two.

Before he could say anything, Kaidoh offered softly, "We'll look." With a last, sympathetic glance to Ryoma, he and Kawamura began to search the room. Ryoma's blank stare began to unnerve Oishi. The Vice Captain reached up to touch the freshman's shoulder. Ryoma flinched and suddenly scrambled away. Oishi jumped. Ryoma stared at the senior in fright, one quivering hand outstretched, the other holding the jacket closed. Oishi could see the boy's fluttering pulse in his throat. They stared at each other. Slowly, Ryoma pulled the hand back inside his warm, double-jacket tent, cast his rhyolite eyes down, and muttered, "Sorry."

Oishi managed to find his voice. He forced a false cheeriness into it. "No, no, nothing to be sorry about!" There was another awkward silence. Finally, he twisted around. "Have you guys found his clothes yet?" It helped him to have something to focus on, something… mundane.

Kawamura looked up and slid a drawer shut. "No, not yet."

Ryoma waited, suspended in a peaceful blankness – a white noise of body and mind. He shivered.

Oishi felt useless. Should he help them look, or should he stay beside Ryoma's side? He had no idea what he was supposed to do. His gaze drifted across the watercolor painting, to the floor, across the unconscious man, and back to the rumpled sheets in front of his knees. His eyes abruptly widened, and he reached out to touch a spot just in front of his knees. It was where Ryoma had been lying when they'd walked in, and where he had sat when Oishi held him. The Vice Captain flicked horrified eyes up to his kouhai. "Echizen," he whispered. He held out his hand, palm up. His fingertips were bloody.

Ryoma blinked vacantly at the hand. Then he blinked vacantly into Oishi's dark eyes. The senior opened his mouth to speak.

"Found them!" Kawamura cried a bit desperately. He leapt toward the bed, wrinkled clothes outstretched in his hands. Kaidoh stood up and swaggered toward the four-poster, too; the search was over. They both froze, eyes locking onto the blood on Oishi's hand and flicking to the small, glistening stain on the sheets. Tension rode the air.

Finally, Kaidoh stated in disbelief, "It's blood." He met Ryoma's distant, hazel eyes as he continued in disbelief, "Echizen's blood."

The clothes slipped from Kawamura's fingers to the floor with a rustle. He swallowed. The sight of blood made him feel ill. He hastily vowed not to faint.

Ryoma looked away from Kaidoh's hard gaze. He asked faintly, "Is it?" The three senpai-tachi winced at Ryoma's indifference.

Oishi suddenly realized that they needed a leader – that he could not afford to vacillate or hover uselessly. He needed to be Seigaku's Vice Captain. He stood on slightly shaky legs and nodded to the air. "Okay. First things first. We need a first aid kit." He paused. "And we need to notify Tezuka where we are." He gestured. "We've obviously found Echizen." His voice faltered.

No one moved. Finally, Kawamura lifted a forefinger, his ashen face brightening a bit. He yanked open a drawer of the dresser behind him, pulled out something and thrust it toward Oishi. The Vice Captain took the cell phone in slow, confused surprise, murmuring, "Thanks, Taka-san."

Kawamura shrugged, explaining sheepishly, "I found it along with Echizen's clothes."

Oishi dialed his Captain's number by heart and held the cell to his ear, hoping desperately that Tezuka had his phone with him. The rings ended shortly with a familiar, stern voice, and Oishi sighed in relief. A short, to-the-point conversation ended in a few exchanges, and the Vice Captain snapped the phone closed. Some of the tension left his shoulders, and he lifted his chest with more assurance. He announced with a small smile, "Tezuka is coming."

The air in the room changed – as though Oishi had proclaimed that their deliverance was at hand.

Kaidoh scooped up Ryoma's clothes from the floor and thrust them into the boy's chest. "Here," he muttered. "We'll look for a first aid kit."

Ryoma reflexively closed his hands around the blue and white fabric. His eyes wandered over the wadded wrinkles and across the pale surface of his hands. He noted with distant, vaguely scientific interest that his fingernails were tinged with blue. Without sensing pain, he saw that his wrists were red and abraded from the rough rope. Thin trickles of brown blood had dried like charm bracelets. His slender fingers trembled.

Ryoma jerked his head up with a wild look as Oishi's words finally connected in his brain. "What?" he demanded. "Tezuka's coming? And the others, too?" He didn't wait for a response. "Senpai-tachi," he implored, flicking frantic eyes from one to another, "please don't say anything about..." He gestured to the blood spot. His eyes seemed to say so much more than words ever could.

When they faltered, he begged, _"Please._ Don't say anything. Don't _ever_ say anything."

Oishi lifted a hand up to Ryoma's shoulder, but pulled it back before it touched. "Echizen..." he whispered. His hand fisted. He glanced toward the others' concerned, bewildered faces. "Okay," he murmured. "We won't."

"Good," Ryoma breathed. His wet eyes met Oishi's, Kaidoh's, and Kawamura's with profound relief. "Thank you."

* * *

Keigo Atobe smirked. "So you're Ryoma Echizen's brother?" He scanned the other – black-green hair, hazel eyes, and a perpetual arrogance. The smirk became tinged with a sneer. "Of course you are."

Ryoga lifted an eyebrow, singularly unimpressed with this rich snob. "What that's supposed to mean?"

Atobe smoothed the purple satin lapel of his tailored tuxedo and shifted a stray, wavy lock of violet-gray hair back into place. "Oh, nothing. Right, Kabaji?"

"Yes," grunted the dark-skinned giant latched to Atobe's heels.

Ryoga finally just shook his head and turned away. "Oi!" Atobe called suddenly. "Aren't you going to thank me?"

Ryoga turned only his head to see them out of the corner of his right eye. "For what?"

Atobe fluffed affronted feathers like a hen pecking for her share of the corn kernels. "For saving you, that's what!" He threw out a hand. "That guy's a scoundrel, and _I'm _the one who realized it!"

Ryoga's face tightened as his gaze followed the gesture. A small boat and a larger yacht floated alongside the huge, steel cruise ship. He could just make out the handcuffed, slumped form of Sakurafubuki sitting cross-legged on the deck. Around him, four armed officers stood at alert, rifles in hand. Other shapes scurried to and fro.

Atobe seemed to realize too late what he had said. He folded his arms and huffed in a softer voice, "I only meant that when I heard about Seigaku's little field trip, something rang false. I didn't recognize the family name Sakurafubuki, and I should have. So I notified the authorities and decided to come along." He glared at the side of Ryoga's head. "As it turns out, he was committing fraud, not to mention illegal gambling, and..." He swallowed.

Ryoga faced forward again. He paused before calling in sincerity, "Thank you." He then lifted a hand goodbye and walked off.

Atobe's eyes suddenly widened as a thought occurred to him. He yelled again, "Oi!" Ryoga turned, annoyance on his face. "Tell Echizen that if he wants to, he can come back with me! The rest of Seigaku, too!" The elder Echizen shrugged, nodded, and strolled away, hands shoved in his pockets.

Ryoga wished desperately as he strode along the dim, (falsely) luxurious passageway that he had realized earlier the depths of Sakurafubuki's depravity. If he had, he could've spared his little brother. No matter how long his life, he would never forget the memories of hurrying past the stirring, bloodied forms of sailors, past the other tennis players, and into that room. He would never forget the pulp of a fiendish man lying on the floor. But most of all, he would never forget the bruises on his brother's young, lost face, the bloodied marks on his wrists… or the haunted look in his eyes.

Ryoga forcibly shook off the recollections. His tennis shoes squeaked to a halt. He rested the weight of his hand on the brass handle of a door. He took a deep breath and twisted the knob.

Eight Seigaku tennis players snapped to their feet at the sound of the door's creak. The last player slowly lifted rhyolite eyes shadowed by a white cap. Ryoma huddled in a too-large armchair in the far right corner, his arms wrapped around the knees he'd pulled into his chest. Momo stood as close as the chair would allow, one hand resting protectively on his best friend's shoulder. His hard face eased when he saw who had entered. He sank slowly back onto the seat of his own chair.

Ryoga approached his younger brother and crouched in front of him. "Ryoma," he said gently, "Atobe's boat is leaving soon. He told me to tell you that if you want, you can leave on it, too." He looked up to see the intent gazes of the Seigaku team locked on him. "Along with your friends, of course." Ryoga gently lifted Ryoma's hat off by the brim. With a mischievous grin, he settled it over his own head. "Do you want to?"

Everyone waited to see Ryoma's reaction. He slid stiffly off the chair and snatched his cap back. After placing it back where it belonged, he shrugged and muttered, "Okay."

– **Owari (for now) –**

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**Notice: **The sequel to Hostage Situation is up! You can find it with this: /s/5924030/1/Hostage_Situation_II_The_Aftermath But you'll have to add the rest of the link, because this site is goofy like that. Hope to see you there! ^_^


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